ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 
VOL.  I 


ITALIAN 
YESTERDAYS 


BY 

MRS.  HUGH  FRASER 

Author  of  "A  Diplomatist's  Wife  in  Japan," 

"A  Diplomatist's  Wife  in  Many  Lands," 

"  Reminiscences  of  a  Diplomatist's 

Wife,"  etc. 

VOL.    I 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,   1913,  BY 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

Published  November,  1913 


JDG- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


F7 
v-\ 


CONTENTS   OF   VOL.  I 
CHAPTER  I 

PACK 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME i 

Romance  and  Companionship  of  the  Past — Rome  the  Supremely 
Beloved — Pictures  and  Legends  of  Her  Origin — Migration  of 
the  Alban  Shepherds — Romulus  and  Remus — Etruria's  Civili- 
sation— Whole  World  Contributes  to  Rome's  Growth — Brilliant 
Scenes  in  the  Roman  World — Rome's  High  Destiny — Numa 
Pompilius,  the  Law-giver — Egeria's  Grotto— Love  Story  of 
Herodes  Atticus  and  Annia  Regilla — Early  Christianity. 

CHAPTER  II 
REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 18 

Rome's  Seasons — Childhood  Memories  of  a  Roman  Spring — My 
Birthday  Festival — A  Day  in  the  Country — The  Appian  Way — 
Rome's  Great  Wall — An  Adventure  with  the  Campagna 
Steers — Campagna  Sheep-Dogs — Early  Morning  Street  Scenes 
— The  Giardino  Colonna — Secluded  Italian  Gardens — Inroads 
of  Commercialism — Discovery  of  a  Dream-Garden  of  the 
Renaissance — Song  of  the  Nightingale  in  the  Lost  Italian 
Garden. 

CHAPTER  III 
LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 34 

St.  Peter's  First  Visit  to  Rome— Wide  Scope  of  His  Work— 
Rome  Destined  to  Become  the  Seat  of  Ecclesiastical  Government 
— St.  Peter's  Early  Converts — Persecution  of  the  Jews — Life  in 
the  Catacombs — Simon  Magus  and  St.  Peter — Peter's  Return  to 
Rome— Nero's  Slaughter  of  Christians — Peter's  Vision — "  Lord, 
Whither  Goest  Thou  ?  " — Preparation  for  Martyrdom — Last 
Epistle — St.  Peter's  Successor — Imprisonment  of  St.  Peter  and 
St.  Paul — Scenes  of  Final  Tragedy — Crucifixion  of  Peter — Paul 
Beheaded — Devotion  of  Their  Followers. 

CHAPTER  IV 
ROMAN  YESTERDAYS 51 

The  Gods  of  the  Roman  World — Leaven  of  Christianity — Meas- 
ures of  the  Emperors  Against  the  Christians — Nine  General 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Persecutions — Mad  Extremes  of  Heliogabalus — Rescue  of  the 
Bodies  of  the  Apostles — Tragic  History  of  the  Appian  Way — The 
Joys  of  Solitude — How  Marion  Crawford  Became  the  Master 
of  San  Niccola — A  Solitude  of  Relaxation  and  Quiet — A  Secluded 
Garden  on  the  River  in  Rome — The  Contrasts  of  Life  and  the 
Happiness  in  Hoping — An  Artists'  Festival — How  a  Roman 
Emperor  Looked. 

CHAPTER  V 
A  FEUDAL  VILLA 64 

Ancient  Beauty  of  Villa  Borghese — A  Sylvan  Siesta — The  Wood- 
land of  the  Borghese — The  Heart  of  the  Trees — The  Borghese 
Anemone — Vintage  Time  in  the  Grape  Countries — Tuscany,  an 
Atmosphere  of  Purity  and  Calm — Bunches  of  Grapes  Two  Feet 
Long — Muscatels  of  Etruria — October  Festivals  at  the  Villa 
Borghese — Peasants  of  the  Coast  Towns — Picturesque  Costume 
of  the  Albanese — Feast  in  the  Private  Garden — Fountains  of 
Wine — Classic  Chariot  Races — The  Passing  of  the  Feudal 
System. 

CHAPTER  VI 
A  CHURCH  PILGRIMAGE 79 

Church's  Pilgrimage  on  the  Feast  of  the  Apostles — The  Seven 
Commemorative  Churches — The  Byzantine  Basilica  of  St.  Paul 
— The  Apostle's  Tomb — Ostian  Way,  the  Saddest  of  All  Roads 
— The  Tideless  Sea — Call  of  the  Unknown,  Gorgeous  East — 
Santa  Pudentiana,  the  Site  of  St.  Paul's  First  Abiding  Place 
in  Rome — Christianity  in  Early  Rome — Priest  Pastor's  Story  of 
the  Pudens  Family — Holy  Relics — Story  of  the  Crime  of  the 
Vico  Scellerato — The  Last  of  the  Roman  Kings. 

CHAPTER  VII 
THE  LATER  EMPERORS 94 

People  and  Scenes  of  the  Corso — The  Collegio  Romano — 
Cardinal  Merry  del  Val — Church  of  the  Trinita  dei  Monti — A 
Picture  of  the  Emperor  Theodosius  and  His  Son — The  Other 
Boy  Emperor,  Gratian — The  Usurper,  Maximus — Nobility  of 
Gratian — Finally  Overcome  by  Treachery — Saint  Ambrose — 
Fifth  Day  at  St.  Peter  of  the  Chains — Two  Christian  Em- 
presses— The  Miracle  of  the  Chains — High  Mass  at  San  Pietro 
— Latter  Days  of  the  Pilgrimage — View  from  Janiculum  Hill — 
Michelangelo  and  Vasari — Michelangelo's  "  Visiting  Card." 

CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE  .     .    , 118 

Final  Function  of  the  Pilgrimage — St.  John  Lateran — A  Daring 
Climb— A  Story  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi — Dante's  Tribute — 

vi 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

Rome's  Ghetto — Yellow  Banksia  Roses — Fair  on  the  Eve  of 
the  Feast  of  St.  John  the  Baptist — Early  Figs — St.  Anthony 
and  the  Sucking  Pig — Rome's  Studios — A  Picture  of  Hebert'i — 
Hamon's  Work. 

CHAPTER  IX 
ST.  CECILIA 136 

Persecution  Result  of  Covetousness — Steady  Growth  of  Chris- 
tianity— Story  of  Saint  Cecilia — Dress  of  a  Patrician  Woman 
— A  Roman  Marriage — Cecilia's  Consecration — Apparition  of  St 
Paul — Cecilia's  Guardian  Angel — Conversion  of  Two  Roman 
Nobles — Slaughter  of  Christians — A  Declaration  of  Faith — 
Condemnation  of  the  Nobles. 

CHAPTER  X 
MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 154 

A  Glorious  Martyrdom — A  Vision  of  Heaven — The  Bodiei  of 
the  Martyrs — Prefect  Incensed  Against  St.  Cecilia — Preparation 
for  Death — Her  Trial — Her  Victory  and  Martyrdom — The 
Miracle  of  Her  Three  Days'  Ministering — Final  Honours — 
Martyrdom  of  St.  Urban  and  His  Companions — Cecilia's  Place 
Among  Martyrs — Her  Tomb  in  the  Catacombs — Pope  Paschal'i 
Vision  of  St.  Cecilia — Cecilia's  Restoration  to  Her  Own  Church 
— History  of  Her  Church — The  Second  Finding  of  Her  Body — 
Her  Statue. 

CHAPTER  XI 

THE  CHURCH  UNDER  CONSTANTINE 181 

Constantine's  Edict — St.  Sylvester,  the  Friend  of  Constantine — 
Refuge  at  Soracte — The  Emperor's  Vision — "  In  Hoc  Vinces " 
— Constantine's  Baptism — The  Church  Has  Peace — Helena's 
Basilica — The  Blessing  of  the  Golden  Rose — Origin  of  St.  Peter's 
— The  Obelisk  from  Heliopolis — Testimony  of  the  Dust  of  the 
Martyrs — The  Place  of  the  Shock  of  Horses — The  Beauty  of 
St.  Peter's — Pilgrims  from  Britain — Charlemagne,  the  Blessed. 

CHAPTER  XII 
STORY  OF  ALARIC 199 

Pursuit  of  the  Ideal — Alaric,  the  Friend  of  Theodosius — Theo- 
dosius'  Dream — The  Victory  at  the  Birnbaumer  Wald — De- 
fection of  Alaric — Pictures  of  the  Plundering  of  Rome — Marcella 
and  Principia — St.  Peter's  Treasures — Plans  Against  Africa — 
Alaric's  Death  and  Last  Resting-place. 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  SPHINX  OF  FRENCH  HISTORY 212 

The  Battleground  of  Europe — The  Riddle  of  "  The  Man  in  the 
Iron  Mask " — Its  True  Story — Louis  XIV's  Ambition  in  Italy 
— Plot  to  Secure  Casale — Character  of  Charles,  Duke  of  Man- 
tua— Count  Mattioli,  His  Favourite — Terms  of  the  Transfer — 
Mission  of  the  Count  to  Paris — Conclusion  of  the  Treaty — 
Mattioli's  Double  Dealing — Ominous  Delays — The  Storm 
Breaks. 

CHAPTER  XIV 
[TRUTH  OF  THE  IRON  MASK 226 

Mattioli's  Betrayal  of  Louis  XIV — Participation  of  Duke  Charles 
— Louis'  True  Character  Exhibited  to  World — Abduction  of 
Mattioli — Imprisoned  for  Fifteen  Years — Insanity — Story  of  the 
Mask — Mattioli's  Disappearance  No  Mystery — Explanation  of 
the  Riddle — Mattioli's  Hardships — His  End. 

CHAPTER  XV 
A  "  CAUSE  CELEBRE  " 236 

The  Defrene  Case,  a  Drama  of  Crime  and  of  Justice — The 
Marquis  Defrene — Marie-Elizabeth  du  Tillay — Elopement — 
Bogus  Marriage — Flight  to  England — Marriage  Made  Legal 
— The  Marquis  Tires  of  the  Marriage  State — Evil  Plans — 
Marie-Elizabeth  Forewarned — Adventures  of  Her  Flight — The 
"  Penitent "  Defrene — Compromising  Letters — The  Vindication 
of  Marie-Elizabeth — A  Judicial  Separation. 

CHAPTER  XVI 

EUSTOCHIA 249 

A  Child  of  Sin — Born  1444 — Her  Early  Peculiarities — Physical 
Possession  by  Evil  Spirits — Sent  to  a  Convent — A  Life  of  De- 
votion— Eustochia  a  Novitiate — A  Supernatural  Accident — Belief 
that  She  Was  a  Hypocrite — Resignation — The  Evil  Spirit  in 
Possession — Frightful  Torments — Evil  Portents — A  Sorceress? 
— Imprisonment — Persecutions  by  Invisible  Powers — Regaining 
Good  Esteem — A  Nun — Her  Sanctity  and  Constancy — Her  Death 
and  Burial. 

CHAPTER  XVII 
A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 270 

Personality  of  Italian  Towns — Verona — Its  History — Early 
Years — Ezzelino  da  Romano,  Unique  in  Cruelty — Wholesale 

viii 


CONTENTS 

FACE 

Execution  and  Imprisonment — Pope  Alexander  IV  Assails  the 
Monster — Ezzelino  Wounded  and  Captured — Suicide — New  Line 
of  Despots — Cangrande  del  la  Seal  a — Dante  and  Petrarch — 
Further  Lords  of  Verona — Later  History — The  Drei  Kaiser 
Bund. 

CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  BRAVI  OF  VENICE 288 

Fascination  of  Venice's  Criminal  Administration — Lords  of  the 
Night — Secret  Detectives — Degeneration  of  Republic — Hired 
Ruffians — Their  Murderous  Activities — An  Escapade  of  Pesaro, 
Paragon  of  Bravi — Gambara,  Last  of  the  Despots — Open  War 
Against  Law  and  Order — Final  Pardon. 

CHAPTER  XIX 
LEGENDARY  VENICE 298 

Venice,  Bride  of  the  Sea — Its  Glorious  Children — Pledge  of  the 
Crown  of  Thorns — The  Miracle  of  Saint  Saba's  Relics — Intel- 
lectual Humility  and  Faith — St.  Mark,  Patron  of  the  Venetians 
— Theft  of  the  Saint's  Remains  from  Alexandria — Reception  in 
Venice — Early  History — Tales  of  Hardships — The  Gate  of  the 
Damsels — Legends  of  the  Saint. 

CHAPTER  XX 
A  DOGE'S  LIFE 311 

A  Wicked  Son — Becomes  Doge — His  Marriage — Ambitions — 
Venice  a  Huge  Conspiracy — The  Palace  Surrounded — His  Fate 
— Venetian  Ideals — Story  of  a  Feud  of  the  Tenth  Century — 
Opened  with  an  Assassination — Murderer  Upheld  by  the  Em- 
peror— Venice  Attacked — A  Civil  War  in  Venice — Uprising  of 
the  Citizens — Another  Doge — Building  of  St.  Mark's — The  Doge 
and  the  French  Abbot — The  Doge  Become  a  Monk — A  Story  of 
Marion  Crawford's. 

CHAPTER  XXI 
"  THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  SEA  " 324 

Origin — Venice's  Growth — Treaties  with  the  Emperor — Pietro 
Orseolo  Annihilates  the  Pirates — Welcome  on  His  Return — Story 
of  Marco  Polo— A  Trader  with  the  East — A  Strange  Journey 
— Bokhara — Capital  of  Kublai  Khan — Impressed  with  Chris- 
tian Ideals — Return  Journey — At  Home  in  Venice — Failure  of 
Plans  to  Convert  the  Tartars — Again  in  the  Far  East — Lost 
for  Twenty-five  Years — Return  to  Venice  with  Vast  Wealth — A 
Gorgeous  Banquet — Marco's  Rehabilitation — Ruskin  and  the 
Church. 

ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  XXII 
WAR  WITH  GENOA 335 

Supernatural  Recovery  of  the  Apostle's  Body — Ruskin's  Account 
— Origin  of  the  War — Early  Life  of  Carlo  Zeno — His  Conquests 
— Governor  of  a  Province  in  Greece — Return  to  Venice — Ad- 
ventures at  Constantinople — Escape  of  Zeno — Tenedos  Becomes 
Venetian — Attack  of  the  Genoese — Their  Repulse — Carlo's  Popu- 
larity in  Venice — Pisani's  Career — Carlo  Routs  the  Genoese — 
Peace — Carlo's  Fame — His  Visit  to  Jerusalem — Last  Scuffle 
with  the  Genoese — Life  in  Venice. 


INTRODUCTION 

IT  has  not  been  easy  to  find  a  title  for  the  collection  of 
memories,  personal  and  otherwise,  which  this  book  con- 
tains, but  I  hope  that  the  reader  will  feel  that  in  calling  it 
"  Italian  Yesterdays,"  I  have  honestly  tried  to  describe 
its  contents.  Recollections  of  my  own  experiences  have 
found  a  place  beside  the  stories  and  legends  of  saints  and 
sinners  long  passed  away  from  the  land  where  they  played 
their  parts, — some  virtuous,  some  infamous,  but  all 
notable  and  worth  remembering  for  the  glory  or  the 
tragedy  of  their  lives.  I  have  sometimes  thought  that 
we  modern  people  scarcely  know  how  rich  we  are,  how 
many  and  how  choice  the  treasures  that  History  has  de- 
vised to  us,  and  which,  for  the  most  part,  lie  unclaimed  in 
her  storehouses.  And  I  have  hoped,  in  opening  some  of 
them,  to  induce  others  to  seek  out  for  themselves  and 
make  their  own  some  of  the  wonderful  tales  of  love  and 
valour  which  shine  at  us  from  the  pages,  not  only  of  the 
old  books,  but  from  those  which  the  writers  of  our  own 
day  have  so  wisely  and  lovingly  compiled  for  us.  In  this 
connection  I  must  acknowledge  my  own  indebtedness  es- 
pecially to  Hodgkin,  Dill,  Montalembert,  Dom  Gue- 
ranger,  Hazlitt,  and  Coletta,  historians  who,  each  from 
his  own  point  of  view,  make  the  past  really  live  before  our 
eyes.  For  the  incidents  connected  with  Pius  IX.,  no  better 
book  can  be  found  than  "  Rome,  its  Ruler  and  its  Insti- 
tutions," by  J.  Maguire.  In  regard  to  subjects  outside 
the  range  of  the  writers  I  have  mentioned,  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  give  my  references,  as  they  cover  many  scat- 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 

tered  records  not  easily  accessible  to  the  public;  but  the 
stories,  strange  as  some  of  them  appear,  are  all  real  ones, 
very  carefully  collated  and  verified. 

This  seems  the  right  place  for  the  withdrawal  of  a 
statement  printed  in  my  last  book,  "  Reminiscences  of  a 
Diplomatist's  Wife  ";  and  since  the  recantation  removes  a 
stain  from  a  memory  which  I  have  already  been  forced 
to  treat  none  too  gently,  I  make  it  with  great  willingness. 
I  said  that  Mr.  Nathan,  the  Mayor  of  Rome,  was  the  son 
of  Mazzini.  The  statement  has  been  sharply  corrected, 
both  by  Mr.  Nathan  himself  and  by  a  well-known  Eng- 
lish writer  who  was  Mazzini's  intimate  friend.  Misled  by 
what  I  must  call  at  least  a  widely  accepted  impression,  I 
evidently  fell  into  a  grave  error,  for  which  I  now  wish  to 
tender  my  apologies  to  the  memory  of  the  dead,  and  the 
expression  of  my  sincere  regret  to  the  living,  whose  sus- 
ceptibilities I  have  wounded  on  this  delicate  point. 

MARY  CRAWFORD  ERASER. 

October, 


Xll 


CHAPTER   I 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME 

Romance  and  Companionship  of  the  Past — Rome  the  Supremely  Beloved — 
Pictures  and  Legends  of  Her  Origin — Migration  of  the  Alban  Shep- 
herds— Romulus  and  Remus — Etruria's  Civilisation — Whole  World 
Contributes  to  Rome's  Growth — Brilliant  Scenes  in  the  Roman  World — 
Rome's  High  Destiny — Numa  Pompilius,  the  Law-giver — Egeria's 
Grotto— Love  Story  of  Herodes  Atticus  and  Annia  Regilla — Early 
Christianity, 

IT  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  one  of  the  most  per- 
fect experiences  within  the  grasp  of  mortals  would  be 
that  of  a  child  brought  up  in  seclusion  by  an  adored 
parent,  only  known  to  its  heart  and  mind  as  such  —  and 
to  find,  on  reaching  maturity  and  coming  out  into  the 
world,  that  the  beloved  one  was  the  ruler  of  a  mighty 
empire,  venerated  and  feared  by  millions  of  men.  How 
that  knowledge  would  transfigure  and  ennoble  the  memo- 
ries of  childhood,  of  the  protecting  companionship  be- 
stowed, the  being  rocked  to  sleep  in  those  strong  arms, 
of  the  sunny  play-hours  of  childhood's  day  watched  by 
those  wise  and  loving  eyes! 

All  this  was  Rome  to  me,  through  many  a  long  year 
before  the  doors  were  opened  and  the  glory  of  her  was 
made  known  to  my  mind.  Then  the  old  indulgent  com- 
radeship, accessible  to  every  mood  of  youthful  joy  and 
sorrow,  became  tinged  with  awe  and  yet  was  doubly  cher- 
ished; it  grew  a  thousand  times  more  precious,  yet,  like 
some  holy  relic  that  one  wraps  in  silk  and  gold,  had  to 
be  enshrined  with  other  sacrednesses  in  the  sanctuaries 
of  memory.  One  was  no  longer  Rome's  careless  child, 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

to  whom  all  her  yesterdays  were  playthings  of  equal  value 
with  her  wild  flowers  of  to-day.  She  called  —  and  there 
was  no  disobeying  the  new  command.  The  nursery  door 
was  closed  forever,  and  one  took  one's  place  silently  and 
gladly  in  the  last,  lowest  rank  of  her  subjects  and 
soldiers. 

From  that  moment  one  began  to  learn,  weakly  and  im- 
perfectly, it  is  true.  At  first  the  greatness  of  the  new 
knowledge  overwhelmed  one.  I  remember  writing  to  the 
great  French  Prelate  who  received  me  into  the  Church, 
that  I  felt  like  a  beggar  suddenly  admitted  into  the  palace 
of  his  King,  dazzled  with  the  warmth  and  splendour,  yet 
utterly  ignorant  of  which  way  to  turn  or  how  to  comport 
himself  in  those  august  surroundings.  I  fancy  others  have 
experienced  the  like  bewilderment,  and  happy  they,  if 
they  fell  into  such  wise  and  loving  hands  as  those  which 
were  held  out  to  me  and  finally  helped  me  to  fix  on  a 
study  which,  far  from  making  the  most  serious  of  all 
subjects  dry  and  unattractive,  enriched  it  with  the  warm- 
est touches  of  human  feeling  —  the  holy  glory  of  the  true 
romance. 

Such  study,  such  reading,  is  really  within  reach  of  all 
in  these  days  of  almost  universal  translation  and  simplifi- 
cation; but  so  many  know  nothing  of  how  to  obtain  the 
right  books  —  so  many,  indeed,  are  utterly  unconscious 
that  there  is  anything  to  know  beyond  the  few  distorted 
facts  doled  out  in  non-Catholic  schools,  that  even  the 
most  unassuming  effort  to  share  these  riches  with  them 
may  be  useful  and  welcome.  Modern  life  is  apt  to  be 
a  dry,  unflowery  affair,  but  that  is  because  our  own  lazi- 
ness of  mind  permits  it  to  become  so.  If  we  choose  to 
take  the  past,  it  is  ours;  and  I  defy  any  one  to  claim 
his  inheritance  therein  and  not  find  a  heart-warming 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME 

thought,  a  refreshment  and  a  fragrance  for  every  mo- 
ment of  solitude,  a  chapter  of  high  romance  for  every 
day  of  the  long,  working  year! 

A  romance  must  be  a  love  story,  and  of  all  the  love 
stories  of  time,  that  of  Rome  is  the  most  marvellous. 
Certain  girl  children,  we  are  told,  were  born  so  beautiful 
that,  like  Helen  of  Troy,  Lucrezia  Borgia  —  and  she 
whose  soul  was  of  equal  loveliness  with  what  the 
chronicler  calls  "  the  supreme  and  royal  beauty  "  of  her 
body,  Saint  Radegonde,  Queen  of  France,  they  were  pas- 
sionately loved,  passionately  defended,  passionately  sung, 
from  the  hour  of  their  birth.  And  Rome,  from  the  hour 
when  the  first  hut  was  built  on  the  right  bank  of  the  yet 
nameless  river,  when  the  stones  of  her  first  low  wall  wrote 
her  name  on  that  predestined  soil,  has  been  loved  with  a 
personal  passion  that  has  not  its  like  in  the  world's  history. 
So,  we  know,  she  will  be  loved  to  the  end.  The  very 
hatreds  that  have  attacked  her,  the  cataclysms  that  have 
exhausted  themselves  in  attempts  to  annihilate  her,  the 
cupidity  and  treachery  that  have  bargained  for  her  whom 
no  price  can  buy,  no  hand  of  man  can  hold,  all  testify 
to  the  desire  of  the  nations  to  call  her  theirs.  Above 
and  beyond  the  clamours  of  earth,  she  pursues  her  im- 
mortal destiny,  "  mother  of  all  earth's  orphans  "  as  Byron 
called  her,  the  nurse  of  every  noble  and  humble  soul,  the 
home  and  property  of  the  poorest,  most  ignorant  Catho- 
lic—  but  no  man's  henchwoman,  no  King's  chattel;  now 
as  in  the  past,  and  till  earth's  last  sunrise,  the  true  mis- 
tress of  the  world. 

Could  she  be  less,  marked  at  her  birth  for  empire,  first 
of  nations  and  then  of  souls  ?  What  has  not  been  brought 
to  her  by  tribute  humanity  since  nature  bore  her  in  flame 
and  upheaval,  cradled  her  in  sunshine  and  nurtured  her 

3 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

with  balm?  Looking  at  her  to-day  and  remembering  her 
past,  what  wonderful  pictures  are  unrolled  before  our 
eyes !  Let  us  go  back  to  the  first  of  which  history  speaks, 
and  call  up  the  time  when  the  nameless  river  flowed  past 
the  yet  nameless  hills  that  were  to  become  the  judgment 
seats  of  the  world. 

Standing  on  the  outer  rim  of  the  Pincian  terrace, 
watching  the  primrose  die  to  grey  after  a  sunset  in  spring, 
I  have  gazed  over  towards  St.  Peter's  and  tried  to  see 
the  land  as  it  looked  to  Rome's  builders,  the  shepherds 
who  fled  hither  from  their  ruined  homes  in  the  Alban 
Hills  and  halted  on  the  southern  side  of  the  yellow  river, 
unbridged  and  unnamed  as  yet.  For  it  was  surely  the 
river  that  stayed  their  panic  flight  only  eighteen  miles 
from  where  the  twin  volcanoes  had  vomited  fire  from  the 
craters  that  are  now  the  limpid  lakes  of  Nemi  and  Albano. 
Though  near,  the  spot  seemed  safe  for  the  first  night. 
Doubtless  they  told  each  other  that  the  next  day  they 
would  find  a  ford  and  travel  twice  as  far  again  to  the 
low,  dark  line  of  the  Cimmerian  Hills  to  the  northward. 
But  here,  at  any  rate,  was  herbage  and  water  for  the 
sheep  and  kine  they  had  saved,  and  unbroken  solitude, 
where,  under  the  rough  skin  canopy  spread  from  bough 
to  bough,  the  women  —  the  few  who  had  found  strength 
to  travel  —  could  nurse  their  babies  and  sleep  for  one 
night  unmolested  by  hostile  tribes. 

So  they  rested,  the  younger  men  keeping  watch  by  the 
two  or  three  campfires  built  to  scare  away  the  wolves  and 
foxes.  And  the  morning  came,  a  morning  of  March,  with 
a  leap  of  the  sun  from  behind  the  Sabine  ramparts,  and 
the  dew  pearled  on  oak  and  wild  olive  branch  overhead, 
on  moss  and  fern  beneath,  with  the  little  wild  almond  trees 
on  the  slopes  across  the  river  snowy  with  newly  burst 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME 

blossoms,  while  the  first  lark  soared  up  towards  the  sun- 
shot  blue  in  an  ecstasy  of  song,  and  the  swallows,  just 
back  from  the  shores  of  Africa,  wheeled  lower  and  lower 
and  darted  upward  again,  with  angry  cries,  when  they 
found  their  last  year's  home  invaded  by  men  and  beasts. 
They  made  friends  with  men's  dwellings  later,  and,  for- 
getting the  crannies  of  the  woodlands,  have  built  in  the 
eaves  of  palaces  for  many  a  century  now,  but  I  take  it  that 
in  swallow  sagas  those  first  traditions  have  been  winged 
down  and  are  still  twittered  about,  with  due  respect,  when 
the  patriarchs  hold  their  sky  conclaves  in  the  autumn 
and  the  spring,  and  drill  the  fledglings  for  three  weeks 
before  the  great  semestral  migration. 

From  where  the  tired  shepherds  had  halted  on  the  high 
land  to  the  southeast  of  the  river,  the  empty  cradle  of 
unborn  Rome  would  look  very  fair  in  the  clear  spring 
morning,  and  but  short  debate  must  have  decided,  for 
those  men  of  few  words,  that  here  the  gods  meant  them 
to  stay.  So  here,  as  we  can  still  trace,  Romulus,  the  wolf's 
nursling,  marked  (after  enquiring  of  the  wise  men  of 
Etruria  as  to  the  commands  of  the  gods  concerning  the 
foundation  of  a  city)  the  lines  for  his  wall,  ploughing, 
as  the  legend  says,  with  white  Campagna  steers,  on  his 
chosen  hill  the  Palatine,  where  the  new  altar,  raised  over 
a  pit  in  which  the  first-fruits  of  the  year  and  a  handful  of 
soil  from  each  man's  former  home  had  been  buried, 
already  sent  up  clouds  of  incense  into  the  sweet  spring 
air  on  that  memorable  2ist  of  April,  754  B.C.  And 
Remus,  his  twin,  wolf-nursed  like  him,  was  angry  that 
his  own  hill,  the  Aventine,  had  not  been  awarded  the 
honours,  mocked  atjiis  brother's  commands,  and  sprang 
across  the  mystic  furrow,  to  be  instantly  slain  by  Celer, 
Romulus'  faithful  henchman,  thus  conferring  the  baptism 

5 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

of  human  blood  which  almost  till  our  own  times  was  pre- 
scribed by  necromancers  as  the  only  means  of  rendering 
great  strongholds  stable  and  impregnable. 

It  is  strange  to  find  that  from  the  very  birthday  of 
Rome  she  knew  how  to  levy  tribute  of  the  higher  kind 
from  other  nations.  When  the  frightened  Alban  shep- 
herds, mostly  men  little  regarded  heretofore  in  the  rich 
city  of  Alba  Longa,  spread  their  skin  tents  and  then  threw 
up  their  windowless  cane  huts  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber, 
Etruria,  a  few  score  of  miles  to  the  north,  possessed  a 
written  language,  learned  hierophants,  bold  and  scien- 
tific architects,  full-grown  arts  of  surpassing  beauty,  mar- 
ble amphitheatres,  great  cities  supplied  with  indefectible 
streams  of  pure  water,  and  a  costly  and  complicated  sys- 
tem of  drainage.  Rome  sends  humble  enquiries  to 
Etruria,  beseeching  to  be  taught  how  to  address  and  pro- 
pitiate the  great  gods.  Etruria  gladly  condescends  to 
reply,  and  in  a  given  time,  though  not  without  much  strife 
and  bloodshed,  Etruria  becomes  first  a  tributary  and  then 
a  vassal  of  the  adolescent  Empress  of  the  world,  who, 
through  all  the  centuries  of  her  after  history,  repeats  that 
requisition.  Rough,  practical,  hard-handed,  and  strong, 
yet  avid  of  beauty,  she  will  have  all  that  is  fairest  and 
most  precious.  Her  Art  consisted  in  appreciation;  she 
resolved  to  possess;  the  world  had  to  be  conquered  to 
give  her  what  she  desired,  but  the  world  gave  —  Greece 
her  sculpture  and  painting  and  poetry,  the  Orient  its  silks 
and  jewels  and  spices,  the  South  its  gold  and  grain,  its 
wild  beasts  and  hordes  of  slaves,  the  North  its  furs  and 
warriors,  the  West  its  granite  and  lead;  the  seas  swarmed 
with  her  laden  fleets,  and  the  whole  known  world  became 
a  vast  diagram  of  white  converging  roads  choked  with 
spoils  for  Rome. 

6 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME 

What  strange  sights  those  roads  must  have  seen  when 
the  long  camel  trains  came  plodding  through  from  Persia 
with  their  escort  of  black-bearded,  ringletted  merchants, 
raising  whirlwinds  of  dust  and  eliciting  strings  of  curses 
from  the  fair-haired  drivers  of  ox-teams  from  Gaul,  draw- 
ing huge  loads  of  fruit  and  wine  to  Roman  markets! 
There  the  vendors  of  jewels,  keen-eyed  Jews  and  Syrians, 
armed  to  the  teeth,  had  to  draw  aside  angrily  for  the 
passage  of  bulky  wares  which  one  gem  from  the  tiny  silk- 
wrapped  packet  in  their  bosoms  would  have  paid  for  ten 
times  over;  here  comes  a  richly  draped  litter  with  armed 
horsemen  in  attendance  —  a  great  noble's  wife?  No,  only 
a  beautiful  woman  being  carried  to  the  slave  market  where 
she  will  fetch  the  highest  price.  Suddenly  a  solitary  horse- 
man dashes  through  the  throng  at  break-neck  pace,  heed- 
less of  the  death  his  steed's  hoofs  may  deal.  Shall  the 
Caesar's  despatches  wait  for  the  safety  of  the  common 
herd?  With  perhaps  eight  or  nine  hundred  miles  of  road 
to  cover  in  a  given  time,  the  Imperial  messenger  sees 
nothing,  knows  nothing,  but  his  goal  and  the  shortest 
way  to  it.  How  they  rode  —  those  express  messengers ! 
There  are  many  wild  rides  on  record,  but  for  swiftness 
and  perseverance  I  think  that  of  the  benevolent  Roman 
official  Caesarius,  hastening  from  Antioch  to  Constantino- 
ple to  intercede  for  the  guilty  Antiocheans,  is  the  most 
wonderful.  I  believe  it  is  Theodoret  who  attests  to  the 
fact  that  he  covered  the  distance  of  nearly  eight  hundred 
miles  through  two  ranges  of  mountains  -and  over  much 
broken  country,  in  six  days! 

Many  a  century  had  to  pass  before  all  roads  could  lead 
to  Rome,  but,  while  the  city  was  still  a  mere  fortified  ham- 
let, one  spot  took  on  the  character  which  it  has  kept 
through  the  ages  and  will  keep  till  the  last  day.  Looking 

7 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

over  to  the  further  bank  of  the  river,  the  builders  on  the 
Palatine  could  see,  as  we  see  to-day,  when  the  sun  has 
sunk  in  the  west,  a  long  dark  ridge  rising  like  a  wall  to 
shut  out  the  lower  crimson  of  the  sky.  It  was  wooded 
then,  with  oak  and  pine,  though  now  there  is  but  one  tree 
left,  the  "  Doria  pine,"  to  mark  where  the  forest  grew. 
The  ridge  sunk  at  its  northern  extremity,  in  irregular  un- 
dulations, heavily  wooded  and  mysteriously  dark,  and 
these  connected  it  with  a  chain  of  low  hills  which  stretched 
away  along  the  river's  bank  till  they  were  lost  in  the  mist 
of  the  Campagna. 

The  higher  ridge  very  early  took  on  the  name  of  Mons 
Janiculum;  the  further  hills  were  more  or  less  nameless 
till  the  Renaissance :  but  the  bosky  stretch  between  the  two 
was  regarded  from  the  first  as  sacred  ground.  Why,  one 
can  scarcely  say,  except  for  its  solitude  and  its  cloistered 
verdure.  Looking  towards  it  now,  one  asks  oneself  if 
there  was  indeed  a  time  when  those  who  gazed  westward 
from  the  city's  ramparts  at  evening,  did  not  behold,  across 
the  sea  of  mist  that  lays  twilight  on  the  streets  while 
the  heights  are  still  bathed  in  gold,  that  immortal  outline 
of  a  dome,  dark,  delicate,  and  definite,  between  them  and 
the  setting  sun?  A  time  when  the  soil  that  bears  it  held 
only  the  oaks  and  ilexes  of  the  grove  where  the  "  Vates," 
the  unapproachable  hierophants  of  high,  half-known  gods, 
prayed  and  prophesied  according  to  their  lights?  Where 
the  common  people  came,  not  too  close,  and  paused, 
hushed  and  trembling,  under  the  great  trees,  to  learn  the 
wills  and  ways  of  the  gods?  How  gladly  they  must  have 
sped  back,  ere  night  fell,  across  the  one  bridge,  to  their 
safe,  crowded  homes  within  the  walls,  to  lean  together 
across  the  olive-wood  fire  and  speak  in  whispers  of  the 
oracles  they  had  heard,  while  the  baby  rolled  naked  on 

8 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME 

the  soft  goatskin,  and  the  brown-legged  youngsters  sat 
on  their  haunches,  sniffing  at  the  goat's  meat  bubbling  in 
the  caldron  on  the  hook,  and  the  good  wife  brought  out 
the  fern  basket  of  snowy  cheese  and  washed  the  crisp 
fennel  roots  on  the  doorstep  I  Were  they  merely  men  of 
their  hands,  those  first  Romans,  thinking  more  of  com- 
fort and  safety  than  of  anything  else?  A  writer  who 
could  surely  speak  with  authority  tells  us  that  from  the 
first  the  people  of  Rome  itself  have  been  innately  reli- 
gious, always  conscious  or  subconscious  of  their  city's 
destiny.  Surely  to  one,  here  and  there,  in  some  porten- 
tous dawn  or  brooding  twilight,  the  figure  of  things  to 
be  was  cast  up  against  the  sky!  Did  not  the  slowly- 
moving  clouds  sometimes  pause  over  that  low  ridge  in 
the  west,  to  mass  themselves  in  the  likeness  of  a  dome, 
the  stars  sink  down  from  their  courses  to  foreshadow  the 
gold  of  a  cross? 

The  Mons  Vaticanus,  low,  and  excluded  from  the  city 
limits,  was  never  reckoned  one  of  the  seven  hills;  of  all 
the  Roman  district  it  was  considered  the  least  healthy 
part,  the  land  being  swampy  and  subject,  on  its  lowest 
levels,  to  the  periodical  incursions  of  the  river.  The 
"  Vates,"  versed  as  they  were  in  all  wisdoms,  doubtless 
discovered  means  by  which  to  preserve  themselves  from 
malaria,  for  this  continued  to  be  their  sanctuary,  if  not 
their  home,  for  many  generations.  After  the  Romans 
had,  at  the  prayer  of  their  stolen  Sabine  wives,  become 
reconciled  with  the  men  of  Sabina  —  and,  in  true  Roman 
fashion,  first  given  them  part  in  the  land  and  invited  them 
to  assist  in  government,  and  then  taken  them  on  as  mas- 
ters —  the  great  Sabine  Judge-King,  Numa  Pompilius, 
established  himself  among  the  Vatican  groves  to  compile 
his  books  of  laws.  There  he  wrote,  there  he  died,  and 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

there  was  buried,  commanding  that  his  precious  volumes 
should  have  a  separate  tomb  near  his  own.  "  A  man's 
works  live  after  him;"  the  site  of  Numa's  tomb  was  mere 
guess-work,  his  very  existence  was  scoffed  at  as  a  myth, 
by  progressive  historians,  till  accident  revealed  the  still 
intact  sepulchre  of  his  cherished  writings,  precisely  on 
the  spot  marked  by  tradition  for  some  twenty-five  centu- 
ries. The  good  law-giver  was  one  of  the  revered  reali- 
ties of  my  childhood;  with  sorrow  I  saw  his  memory  cast 
away,  when  I  grew  up,  on  the  ever-growing  scrap-heap 
of  condemned  myths,  where  the  iconoclasts  of  history 
throw  everything  that  does  not  fit  in  to  their  small  neat 
conceptions;  he  has  come  back  to  me  in  these  later  years, 
and  how  welcome  the  towering  luminous  figure  that  hov- 
ered so  protectingly  over  my  early  mind  pictures  of  infant 
Rome! 

One  point  in  his  history  always  puzzled  me,  the  great 
distance  between  his  home  across  the  Tiber  and  the  grotto 
where  Egeria,  the  heavenly  nymph,  instructed  him  in  wis- 
dom. That  lay  in  a  fold  of  the  Caelian  Hill,  and  the  en- 
tire length  of  the  city  has  to  be  traversed  to  reach  it  from 
the  Vatican.  I  used  to  weave  many  fairy  tales  for  myself 
about  Egeria  when,  as  children,  we  were  taken  to  spend 
the  day  in  the  lovely  spot  then  known  as  her  "  Grotto," 
and  so  exquisitely  described  by  Byron  in  "  Childe  Harold  " 
that  there  seems  nothing  left  for  ordinary  mortals  to  tell 
about  it.  But  —  I  will  take  the  risk  of  appearing  pre- 
sumptuous and  say  that  one  factor  was  wanting  to  Byron 
for  the  task  —  he  was  not  born  a  Roman,  and  his  sad 
childhood,  unlike  my  own,  held  no  memories  of  paradisial 
hours  of  play  and  dreaming  round  the  hallowed  fountain, 
and  in  the  sacred  grove. 

For  sacred  the  spot  remains,  although  we  know  now 

10 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME 

that  it  was  not,  as  men  thought  for  many  centuries, 
Egeria's  grotto  and  Egeria's  grove,  but  the  shrine  and 
monument  of  a  merely  human  love,  very  strong  and  pure, 
the  love  of  a  husband  mourning  a  good  wife  and  vowing 
to  perpetuate  her  memory  in  beauty  and  charity.  Since 
this  book  is  not  for  the  learned,  but  for  those  who,  tread- 
ing the  busy  walks  of  modern  life,  have  no  time  to  pore 
over  history  and  its  romances,  I  will  venture  to  tell  again 
the  story  of  this  true  lover. 

During  the  short  reign  of  Nerva  (96-98  A.D.),  an 
Athenian  gentleman,  named  Hipparchus,  fell  into  disgrace 
with  the  still  very  Greek  government  of  his  native  city. 
I  do  not  know  the  origin  of  the  trouble,  but  Athens  always 
dealt  rather  capriciously  with  her  great  ones,  and  we  may 
infer  that  the  great  wealth  of  Hipparchus  had  aroused 
envy  in  his  less  fortunate  fellow-citizens.  His  entire  for- 
tune was  confiscated,  nothing  being  left  to  him  but  an 
apparently  worthless  plot  of  ground  near  the  Acropolis. 
This  ground  his  son,  Atticus,  undertook  with  philosophical 
patience  to  cultivate,  so  as  to  provide  some  food  for  the 
impoverished  family.  To  his  amazement  the  furrow  in- 
tended to  produce  leeks  and  cabbages  revealed  a  hidden 
treasure  of  gold,  buried  there  in  some  forgotten  stress 
of  past  ages,  and  so  abundant  that  the  young  man,  after 
his  first  joy  of  surprise,  was  filled  with  terror. 

The  discovery  was  portentous  and  the  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing almost  too  much  for  a  mortal  to  bear.  However,  he 
had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  keep  the  thing  secret  from 
all  but  his  own  family.  One  can  fancy  how,  in  the  blue 
Athenian  morning,  he  hastily  threw  the  earth  and  stones 
back  over  the  precious  find,  and,  abandoning  spade  and 
ploughshare,  went  home  to  take  counsel  as  to  his  con- 
duct in  regard  to  it.  Did  the  old  man,  Hipparchus,  die 

II 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

of  joy  on  hearing  of  his  good  fortune?  It  may  have  been 
so,  for  at  this  point  he  disappears  from  the  story  and 
returns  no  more.  Atticus  remains  in  possession,  but  such 
hazardous  possession!  If  his  fellow-citizens  heard  of  the 
treasure,  they  would  wrest  it  from  him;  if  the  Emperor 
learnt  of  it,  he,  as  lord  of  all  soil  of  the  Empire,  had  the 
right  to  claim  it  for  himself.  To  enjoy  it  on  the  spot 
or  to  remove  it  in  secret  was  equally  impossible,  and 
Atticus  wisely  decided  to  throw  himself  on  the  well-known 
generosity  of  the  Emperor.  So  he  sent  him  word  that 
he  had  discovered  a  fortune  on  his  land,  and  humbly  asked 
to  be  directed  as  to  the  disposal  of  it.  The  Emperor,  too 
busy  to  give  the  subject  much  thought,  or  else  pleased 
with  the  man's  honesty,  replied  that  he  could  use  it  as 
he  liked.  But  this  casual  authorisation  was  not  enough 
to  calm  the  fears  of  Atticus.  Once  more  he  wrote 
to  Nerva,  saying  that  the  treasure  was  too  great  for  the 
use  of  a  private  person  and  that  he  entreated  the  Em- 
peror to  make  known  his  will  in  regard  to  it.  This  time 
he  received  a  most  explicit  answer,  to  the  effect  that  his 
own  good  fortune  had  bestowed  the  gift  upon  him  and 
that  he  was  to  "  use  what  he  could,  and  abuse  the  rest." 

Thus  fortified  in  his  rights,  Atticus  did  use  his  wealth 
royally,  and  bequeathed  it  to  his  own  son,  Herodes  Atticus, 
who,  forgetting  past  injuries,  lavished  it  in  ornamenting 
with  splendid  buildings  the  city  of  his  birth,  in  all- 
embracing  charities,  in  providing  public  games  of  the 
greatest  splendour,  and  in  the  encouragement  of  art  and 
literature.  Then,  desiring  to  see  the  seat  of  Empire  and 
enjoy  the  intellectual  atmosphere  of  the  Augustan  age, 
he  removed  to  Rome,  and  on  account  of  his  great  learn- 
ing and  attainments,  was  appointed  tutor  to  Marcus  Au- 
relius  and  Lucius  Verus,  the  adopted  sons  of  the  then 

12 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME 

reigning  Emperor,  Antoninus  Pius.  He  left  no  literary 
monument  of  his  own  for  us  to  admire,  but  the  clear 
beauty  of  the  style  of  Marcus  Aurelius  is  doubtless  due 
in  great  part  to  the  early  training  received  from  his  Greek 
tutor. 

Standing  thus  high  in  imperial  favour,  Herodes  Atticus 
was  enabled  to  make  a  splendid  alliance.  He  obtained 
the  hand  of  Annia  Regilla,  a  daughter  of  the  great  Julian 
House,  and  thus  crowned  the  long  romance  of  his  life 
by  a  real  love  marriage.  Annia  Regilla  was  marvellously 
beautiful,  as  good  as  she  was  fair,  and  returned  her  hus- 
band's affection  by  a  love  as  whole-hearted  as  his  own. 
In  an  age  when  universal  selfishness  and  luxury  made  it 
necessary  to  legislate  against  race  suicide,  she  bore  Herodes 
child  after  child,  each  more  welcome  to  its  parents  than 
the  last.  Was  ever  a  man's  cup  of  earthly  happiness  so 
royally  full? 

Then  it  was  dashed  from  him  and  emptied  at  a  blow. 
Annia  Regilla  died  very  suddenly  when  the  birth  of  her 
fifth  child  was  hourly  expected,  and  for  a  time  her  broken- 
hearted husband  seemed  likely  to  succumb  to  despair;  but 
the  very  magnitude  of  his  grief  saved  him  —  in  more 
ways  than  one.  The  Greek  desire  for  concrete  expression, 
the  impulse  to  embody  in  visible  form  the  worshipped 
ideals  of  the  mind,  drove  him  at  first  to  violent  manifesta- 
tions of  mourning  which  appeared  extravagant  and  unreal 
to  the  easy-going  superficial  Romans  of  his  day.  They 
took  life  pretty  much  as  it  came,  even  as  the  Romans  do 
now,  and  the  sight  of  Herodes  Atticus  in  his  black  robes, 
in  his  house  hung  completely  with  black  —  where  he  even 
removed  the  flowery-tinted  marbles  of  walls  and  pave- 
ments to  replace  them  with  sombre  grey  —  all  this  af- 
forded intense  amusement  to  his  fashionable  friends. 

13 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

But  he  had  one  enemy.  His  wife's  brother  had  deeply 
resented  the  marriage  of  Annia  Regilla  to  a  man  whom 
he  considered  a  low-born  outsider,  quite  unfit  to  mate 
with  a  maid  of  his  own  patrician  house;  and,  she  being 
dead,  the  haughty  aristocrat  gave  free  rein  to  his  ani- 
mosity and  accused  Herodes  of  having  poisoned  his 
spouse.  The  absurdity  of  the  indictment  was  potent  to 
all,  but  the  outraged  widower  insisted  upon  being  publicly 
tried  for  the  crime.  The  outcome,  as  he  intended  it 
should,  crushed  the  calumny  forever,  the  Judges  declar- 
ing that  his  devotion  to  his  wife  during  her  lifetime  and 
the  unmistakable  sincerity  of  his  grief  at  her  death  were 
all-sufficient  proofs  of  his  innocence. 

The  fury  of  anger  roused  in  him  by  the  attack  seems 
to  have  recalled  his  energies  and  restored  his  balance 
of  mind.  He  quit  mere  repining,  and  swore  to  erect  to 
his  dead  such  a  monument  as  woman  never  had  before. 
The  beautiful  villa  where  their  happy  years  had  been 
passed  stood  in  a  shallow  valley  of  the  Campagna,  some 
little  distance  to  the  right  of  the  Appian  Way,  not  far 
from  the  already  ancient  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella.  At 
that  time  the  land  along  the  Appian  Way,  nearly  as  far 
as  the  Alban  Hills,  was  covered  with  palaces  and  villas, 
costly  monuments  and  beautiful  gardens.  The  home  of 
the  wealthy  Greek  was  remarkable  enough  to  be  famous 
even  among  these,  although  he  had  chosen  for  its  site 
a  piece  of  land  belonging  to  his  wife,  indeed,  but  held 
till  then  in  rather  scornful  repute.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  a  small  temple  of  Jupiter  had  stood  there  from  very 
early  times,  this  charming  valley  had  been  used  as  a 
spot  to  which  the  "  Jews,"  otherwise  the  Christians,  had 
more  than  once  been  banished  under  very  hard  conditions, 
to  punish  their  contumacy  in  refusing  to  sacrifice  to  the 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME 

statues  of  the  gods.  Here,  says  a  learned  Catholic  his- 
torian, St.  Peter  himself  came  with  many  of  his  flock, 
during  his  first  visit  to  Rome,  to  take  refuge  in  the  sub- 
terranean crypts  which,  hastily  dug  in  those  early  years, 
were  afterwards  enlarged  and  extended  till  they  formed 
an  underground  city  for  the  living  and  a  safe  resting-place 
for  the  dead. 

Of  Christianity,  whether  above  or  below  ground, 
Herodes  Atticus  knew  little  and  doubtless  cared  less.  The 
despised  sect  aroused  but  faint  interest  in  the  upper  classes, 
and  the  most  scathing  reproaches  on  their  voluntary 
degradation  were  addressed  to  any  of  the  latter  who  joined 
it  or  manifested  pity  for  its  sufferers.  But  Atticus  had 
a  warm  and  generous  heart  in  his  bereavement;  it  is  said 
that  he  gave  away  great  sums  in  charity,  and  one  can 
scarcely  doubt  that  some  of  these  gifts  relieved  the  wants 
of  the  poor  Christians  who  begged  for  alms  along  the 
Appian  Way,  and,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  served  the 
Church  so  notably  in  times  of  persecution,  both  before 
and  after  the  days  of  Herodes  Atticus.  The  estate  of 
the  latter  covered  all  the  ground  on  the  right  from  the 
third  to  the  fourth  milestone  of  the  famous  road,  and 
he  had  vowed  during  Annia  Regilla's  lifetime  that  he 
would  make  it  the  most  beautiful  as  well  as  hospitable 
of  all  the  suburban  villages.  Now,  he  laid  out  what  was 
afterwards  known  as  the  "  Pagus  Triopius "  in  lovely 
gardens,  baths,  and  temples,  where  all  his  friends,  rich 
and  poor,  were  invited  to  enjoy  their  share  of  his  wealth 
by  an  inscription  over  one  of  the  gates,  which  ran,  "  This 
is  the  abode  of  hospitality." 

After  his  acquittal  from  the  abominable  accusation 
brought  against  him  by  his  brother-in-law,  he  offered  all 
his  wife's  jewels  to  the  Temple  of  Ceres  and  Proserpine, 

15 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

asking  Heaven  to  smite  him  if  he  had  been  guilty  of  the 
imagined  crime;  then  he  built  her  a  magnificent  tomb 
in  a  garden  laid  out  for  that  purpose  —  a  garden  which 
he  called  "  The  Field  of  Sepulchre  "  and  in  which  only 
her  direct  descendants  were  to  be  laid  forever. 

In  reading  all  the  story  of  this  true  lover  (translated  — 
for  Greek  is  still  Greek  to  me  —  from  the  very  full  in- 
scriptions found  at  the  Pagus,  and  from  the  writings  of 
Philostrates  and  Pausanias)  I  could  not  help  reflecting 
how  few  direct  ways  true  love  has  of  manifesting  itself 
—  for  one  and  the  same  was  the  thought  of  Abraham, 
insisting  on  buying  and  holding  for  his  very  own  the  field 
of  Mamre,  to  bury  Sara  in  —  and  the  preoccupation  of 
the  highly  cultured  Greek  to  enshrine  the  remains  of  his 
beloved  Annia,  where,  by  all  human  prevision,  they  could 
never  be  disturbed.  Also,  the  beloved  Annia's  tomb  has 
crumbled  into  dust.  All  that  is  left  of  Herodes  Atticus' 
garden  is  the  ilex  grove  and  the  ruined  nymphaeum  with 
the  broken  statue  and  the  clear  fountain,  which,  as  a  little 
girl,  I  knew  as  the  grotto  of  Egeria. 

But  that  which,  all  unknown  to  Atticus,  was  even  then 
burrowing  and  spreading  beneath  his  beautiful  gardens 
and  palaces,  the  underground  city  of  Christianity,  where 
the  faith  lay  like  rich  seed  in  the  dark,  warm  earth,  that 
survives,  and  its  ways  have  been  worn  smooth  by  the 
feet  of  thousands  of  pilgrims  for  nearly  twenty  centuries. 
The  rent  bodies  and  few  poor  ashes  of  the  "  Christian 
Beggars  "  of  the  Appian  Way  were  never  approached 
save  with  love  and  veneration,  and,  whereas  the  slab 
of  exquisite  Pentelic  marble  on  which  Annia's  epitaph  — 
in  thirty-nine  Greek  verses  —  was  inscribed,  has  become 
part  of  a  public  collection,  the  name  and  date,  and  the 
rude  attempt  at  a  palm  branch  to  indicate  the  martyr's 

16 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  EARLY  ROME 

death,  stand  out  as  clear  to-day  on  the  walls  of  the  Cata- 
combs as  they  did  when  they  were  hastily  scratched  in 
the  soft  clay,  at  some  midnight  burial  under  Nero  or 
Diocletian,  the  envious  though  mourning  brethren  pray- 
ing "  that  the  Church  might  have  peace,"  but,  yet  more 
fervently,  that  they  also  might  be  found  worthy  if  their 
own  hour  must  come  first. 


CHAPTER    II 

REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 

Rome's  Seasons — Childhood  Memories  of  a  Roman  Spring — My  Birth- 
day Festival — A  Day  in  the  Country — The  Appian  Way — Rome's 
Great  Wall — An  Adventure  with  the  Campagna  Steers — Campagna 
Sheep-Dogs — Early  Morning  Street  Scenes — The  Giardino  Colonna — 
Secluded  Italian  Gardens — Inroads  of  Commercialism — Discovery  of 
a  Dream-Garden  of  the  Renaissance — Song  of  the  Nightingale  in  the 
Lost  Italian  Garden. 

IT  is  time  to  take  breath.  So  far,  we  have  been  living 
over  in  mind  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  certain  dwellers 
near  the  Appian  Way,  but  every  true  story,  however  fair 
and  fine,  seems  to  run  like  crystal  beads  strung  on  a 
dark  thread.  The  shadow  of  possible  tragedy  is  behind 
all  things  human,  and  even  the  happiest  tales  of  old  leave 
one  with  a  little  pang  at  heart  for  the  black  hour  of  death 
which  came  to  all  the  actors  in  them  sooner  or  later. 
One  turns  with  relief  to  the  things  that  people  wrongly 
call  inanimate  —  the  things  of  Nature,  whose  life  is  so 
comfortingly  different  from  our  own,  so  rich  in  vitality 
that  each  declining  season  is  lifted  up  and  carried  on  in 
the  arms  of  the  next,  as  it  were,  to  return  in  all  its 
vigour  and  beauty  when  the  moment  arrives. 

To  dwellers  in  Rome  the  "  honied  core  "  of  all  the 
year  comes  with  the  first  days  of  spring.  Looking  back 
on  Roman  winters,  indeed,  from  my  later  experiences  of 
the  season  in  arctic  climates,  they  were,  with  few  excep- 
tions, one  carol  of  brightness  and  sunshine;  we  spoke  of 
winter  for  the  sake  of  putting  on  our  furs  and  lighting 
a  few  fires,  but  the  violets  never  ceased  to  bloom  in  the 

18 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 

open,  the  shady  avenues  of  the  many  villas  were  not  too 
cool  for  dalliance,  and  it  was  only  when  the  "  tramon- 
tana,"  blowing  over  the  mountains  in  the  north,  turned 
the  air  from  balm  to  crystal,  that  we  had  a  touch  of  real 
winter  at  all.  Nevertheless,  the  spring,  its  opening  day 
marked  by  the  arrival  of  the  first  swallows,  was  intoxi- 
catingly  welcome.  The  first  day  of  Lent  had  put  a  period 
to  most  of  the  social  functions  and  —  such  is  the  levity  of 
youth  —  had  given  us  girls  time  to  think  of  a  spring 
frock  or  so.  Then,  on  some  March  morning,  the  cry 
would  go  through  the  house,  "  The  swallows  have  come !  " 
and  thenceforward  we  lived  very  much  in  the  open  air. 
From  the  time  when  I  was  very  small  it  had  always  been 
the  same,  and  even  now,  at  my  "  far  world's  end,"  and 
with  five  decades  between  the  "  now  "  and  the  "  then," 
the  memory  of  those  spring  days  goes  to  my  head  a  little. 
In  a  snow-bound  land  of  pale  suns  and  wintry  wastes  I  can 
shut  my  eyes  and  feel  again  the  bath  of  sunshine,  smell 
the  bitter-sweet  of  Campagna  thyme  and  daisy,  almost 
hear  the  larks  at  their  singing,  the  soft  bleating  of  the 
Campagna  lambs,  the  baying  of  the  white  sheep  dogs,  the 
faint  piping  of  the  solitary  shepherd  boy  sitting  on  the  low 
stone  fence  while  his  flock  nibbled  audibly  at  the  newly 
sprung  grass.  That  last  is  one  of  the  prettiest  of 
outdoor  sounds,  I  think.  The  world  has  to  be  very  still 
to  let  one  hear  it  at  all,  and  then  the  delicate  "  crsh- 
crsh  "  is  like  the  music  of  a  fairy  March  accentuated  by 
the  regular  moving  of  the  light  little  hoofs  over  the  turf. 

One  such  morning  comes  back  to  me  very  vividly.  I 
think  it  was  that  of  my  tenth  birthday,  and  we  had  all 
been  taken  out  to  "  Egeria's  Grotto  "  to  mark  the  festa. 
I  wonder  if  parents  know  what  a  real  birthday  festivity 
means  to  an  imaginative  child?  Mine  came  in  the  out- 

19 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

burst  of  the  Roman  April,  and,  as  long  as  we  lived  in 
the  old  Villa  Negroni,  was  a  perfect  carnival  of  flowers. 
From  the  time  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  an  air  of  joyous 
mystery  pervaded  the  house.  Every  servant  came  to 
kiss  my  hand  and  bring  me  a  fat  posy,  sent  for  to  the 
country,  of  the  strong  farmhouse  flowers  that  did  not 
grow  in  our  garden,  marigolds  and  marguerites,  jessa- 
mine and  "  gagia  " — the  yellow  powdery  blossoms  that 
keep  their  perfume  for  fifty  years,  the  whole  tied  up  in 
a  setting  of  sweet  basil  and  "  madre-cara  " —  I  do  not 
know  its  name  in  English  —  a  feast  of  clean  fragrance 
—  "  Cento  di  questi  giorni !  "  (a  hundred  of  these  days) 
said  every  one  I  met  on  my  way  to  my  mother's  room,  for 
the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  rush  into  her  arms  and  have 
her  tell  me  how  old  I  was.  Then,  with  a  handkerchief 
tied  over  my  eyes,  I  was  solemnly  taken  into  the  big  red 
drawing-room  where  the  rest  of  the  household  was  al- 
ready assembled  and  led  to  the  place  where  my  portrait 
hung  on  the  wall.  There  was  a  breathless  second  of 
expectation,  then  the  handkerchief  was  whisked  off,  and 
I  saw  a  bower  of  white  spirea  from  which  my  own  pic- 
ture smiled  down  at  me,  above  a  little  table  covered  with 
a  white  cloth  and  smothered  in  spirea,  too.  Under  the 
foam  of  the  flowers  were  all  my  presents,  done  up  in 
my  dear  mother's  favourite  parma  violet  tissue-paper  and 
satin  ribbons.  The  next  hour  was  an  intoxication.  It 
always  seemed  as  if  all  the  things  I  had  been  longing 
for  for  months  were  collected  there.  When  everybody 
had  been  thanked,  I  was  left  alone  for  a  while  to  examine 
and  exult  in  my  new  possessions;  then  I  had  to  be  dressed 
in  my  best  clothes  for  the  real  crown  of  the  day,  a  walk 
alone  with  my  adored  mother,  with  my  pockets  stuffed 
with  pennies  so  that  I  could  give  something  to  every 

20 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 

beggar  we  met!  In  the  afternoon  there  would  be  a  drive 
out  to  some  point  on  the  Campagna,  with  a  box  of  bon- 
bons to  help  us  enjoy  the  view,  and  in  the  evening  the 
beloved  godfather,  Mr.  Hooker,  always  came  to  dine 
and  help  me  cut  my  birthday  cake,  a  splendid  edifice  with 
my  name  and  the  date  in  pink  and  white  frosting,  wreathed 
in  spirea  and  surrounded  by  lighted  candles  to  the  num- 
ber of  the  years  I  had  attained. 

As  I  grew  a  little  older  I  preferred  to  spend  the  whole 
day  in  the  country,  and  then  the  place  to  make  for  was 
the  so-called  Grotto  of  Egeria.  There  was  surely  soli- 
tude, where  it  seemed  as  if  no  one  ever  came  but  our- 
selves; the  outer  world  was  left  a  thousand  miles  behind; 
the  velvet  undulations  of  the  lonely  valley  were  all  a 
carpet  of  short  thyme  over  which  we  rolled  like  the  little 
kids  of  the  goats  that  scampered  away  at  our  approach. 
And,  best  of  all,  there  was  the  deep  grotto  with  the  broken 
statue  and  the  shadowy  crystal  of  its  mysterious  spring, 
its  sides  and  vault  one  mantle  of  diamond  —  sprent 
maidenhair  fern,  its  moist  air  and  soft  green  light  —  a 
reflection  from  sun  and  grass  outside  —  making  it  a  place 
where  the  most  light-hearted  child  could  not  but  feel  the 
solemnity  of  something  very  ancient  and  very  spiritual. 
I  used  to  linger  there  to  dream  of  Egeria,  the  more  than 
mortal,  less  than  spirit  maid  who  revealed  the  lore  of 
Heaven  to  the  Sabine  Sage.  I  could  picture  her  pale 
beauty,  as  she  would  sit  by  the  spring  and  let  Numa  tell 
her  of  all  the  perplexities  and  difficulties  of  his  rule,  and 
very  earnestly  did  I  beg  her  to  appear  to  me  too,  but  she 
never  came;  how  could  she,  when  that  had  never  really 
been  her  home?  Then  I  would  leap  back  to  earth  with 
a  bound  and  join  my  brother  and  sisters  and  the  little 
playmates  who  always  came  with  us,  in  a  breathless  game 

21 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

which  began  with  a  mystic  incantation  I  have  never  heard 
except  in  those  days  and  in  my  own  family.  I  should  be 
glad  if  any  one  could  enlighten  me  as  to  its  origin,  though 
I  fancy  it  may  have  been  an  inheritance  from  some  witch 
ancestress.  Thus  it  ran : 

"  Intery,  Mintery,  Cutery,  Corn, 
Apple  Seed  and  Apple  Thorn, 
Wire,  Brier,  Limber,  Lock, 
Seven  Geese  in  a  Flock. 
Sit  and  Sing, 
By  a  Spring  I 
O,  U,  T— OUT!" 

For  every  word  a  head  was  counted  round  and  round 
the  hand-in-hand  ring,  and  the  unlucky  one  to  whom  fell 
the  last  one  "  Out  "  had  to  break  away  and  fly,  with 
all  the  rest  in  mad  pursuit.  Some  distant  point,  generally 
the  last  ilex  tree  on  the  far  side  of  the  grove,  had  been 
fixed  upon  as  sanctuary;  if  the  fugitive  could  touch  this 
before  being  caught,  all  was  well;  if  not,  he  or  she  was 
at  the  orders  of  the  others  for  any  wild  prank  they  might 
choose  to  command  —  three  somersaults  down  a  steep 
incline  was  a  favourite  one,  while  the  victors  looked  on 
and  cheered  or  derided,  as  the  case  might  be. 

Had  our  dear  governess  been  of  the  Faith  in  those 
days  as  she  was  later,  she  could  have  told  us  more  mar- 
vellous and  romantic  tales  than  we  had  ever  heard  about 
our  storied  playground  —  the  "  Triopius  Pagus,"  *  not 
only  of  Atticus  and  Annia  Regilla,  but  of  Cecilia  and 
Valerianus,  and  Tiburtius,  and  all  the  valiant  comrades 

*  "  Pagus  "  signified  "  village."  The  term  "  pagan  "  was  first  applied 
to  the  dwellers  in  rural  districts,  who,  from  the  remoteness  of  their  sur- 
roundings, were  tardier  in  hearing  of  and  embracing  Christianity  than  the 
inhabitants  of  the  cities. 

22 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 

of  Urban,  and  the  immediate  successors  of  his  stormy 
pontificate.  As  it  was,  the  classical  landmarks  were  all 
that  the  Appian  Way  held  for  us,  barring  one  spot,  the 
u  Domine,  quo  vadis?"  of  St.  Peter,  which  had  an  un- 
explained fascination  for  us  all.  The  Appian  Way  we 
loved  for  the  sake  of  its  endless  beauties  and  for  the 
monuments  and  ruins  which  were  like  a  compendium  of 
the  history  of  Rome.  A  writer  that  I  used  to  admire, 
though  time  has  robbed  me  of  his  name,  said  that  the 
things  he  loved  best  in  the  world  were  its  high  roads; 
that  to  look  along  one  of  these  and  know  that  it  cut  its 
way,  in  a  clean  swath,  over  mountain  and  plain,  from 
one  end  of  a  continent  to  the  other,  was  to  be  free  to 
travel  whithersoever  fancy  flew,  no  matter  how  chained 
and  confined  the  body  might  be.  The  Appian  Way,  lead- 
ing to  the  favourite  seaport  of  Brundusium,  a  distance  of 
rather  less  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  was  the  true 
road  to  Africa,  to  Palestine,  and  to  all  the  eastern  and 
southerly  provinces  of  the  huge  straggling  Empire.  It 
was  easier  to  sail  the  sea  than  to  climb  and  descend  the 
Alps;  there  are  various  records  in  history  of  a  race,  from 
some  spot  in  the  eastern  portion  of  the  Empire,  run  by 
accuser  and  accused,  the  one  by  sea  and  the  other  by 
land,  each  striving  to  reach  the  seat  of  power  in  Rome 
the  first;  and,  in  spite  of  the  capricious  storms  and  calms 
of  the  Adriatic,  it  was  almost  invariably  the  seafarer  who 
won  the  day. 

Starting  from  the  milestone  of  solid  gold,  which  Rome 
set  up  on  the  Palatine  as  the  centre  of  the  world  and 
the  point  from  which  all  distances  were  to  be  measured, 
the  Appian  Way  ran  due  south,  issuing,  in  the  early  days, 
from  the  Capena  Gate,  which  was  pulled  down  and  lost 
sight  of  when  Aurelian  enlarged  the  city's  precincts  and 

23 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

rebuilt  her  walls  as  they  stand  to-day.  Fine  walls  they 
were,  with  their  huge  outstanding  buttresses  at  short, 
regular  distances  from  one  another  all  the  way.  The 
recesses  between  them  were  deep  enough  to  shelter  a 
dozen  houses,  and  were  utilised,  down  to  my  own  time, 
for  the  erection  of  strong  wooden  stockades  within  which 
riders  and  pedestrians  could  take  refuge  at  the  approach 
of  a  herd  of  the  fierce  Campagna  cattle  being  driven  to 
market  either  in  Rome  or  in  some  town  further  south. 
The  Roman  oxen  look  mild  and  peaceful  enough  when, 
nose-ringed  and  weighted  with  the  ponderous  wooden 
yoke,  they  draw  the  plough  or  wagon ;  but  the  three-year- 
old  steer,  though  he  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  crea- 
tures in  the  world,  with  his  snow-white  hide,  his  startled 
eyes  and  his  widely  curved,  black-tipped,  arrow-pointed 
horns,  is  a  terrifying  customer  to  meet  in  his  untamed 
state  and  with  a  score  or  two  of  his  companions ! 

It  was  forbidden  of  course  to  drive  a  herd  through 
the  city,  but  we  often  met  them  in  our  drives  and  rides. 
Once,  I  remember,  riding  alone  save  for  a  groom.  I  was 
exploring  a  winding  lane,  scarcely  three  feet  wide  and  cut 
so  deep  that  even  from  the  saddle  I  could  not  see  what 
lay  on  either  side  of  it.  Mooning  along  on  a  gentle  little 
mare,  perfectly  happy  with  my  own  thoughts,  I  heard 
a  cry  from  Tom,  the  good  old  English  groom  who  was 
temporarily  responsible  for  my  safety:  "Look  out, 
Miss !  It's  them  blooming  cattle.  Put  her  at  the  bank !  " 

I  raised  my  eyes  and  saw  a  forest  of  horns,  like  files 
of  spears,  the  first  pair  menacingly  lowered,  coming  round 
a  curve  in  the  la-ne  not  twenty  yards  ahead  of  me.  How 
we  made  the  top  of  the  bank  I  do  not  know  —  the  mare 
quite  understood  the  situation  and  was  as  nimble  as  a 
cat  —  but  when  we  had  dropped  into  the  field  on  the 

24 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 

other  side  we  were  both  very  shaky,  and  I  felt  too  meek 
to  resent  Tom's  curt  dictum:  "  The  high  road  or  the  open 
after  this,  Miss!  Them  lanes  isn't  safe  for  the  likes  of 
you!" 

He  was  not  my  own  servant,  only  an  employe  of  the 
one  English  livery-stable  Rome  possessed  in  those  days, 
but  if  he  had  seen  me  grow  up  he  could  not  have  been 
more  faithful  and  vigilant  for  my  comfort  and  safety. 
He  taught  me  to  ride,  and  many  a  delightful  scamper  we 
had  together  over  those  ideal  stretches  of  springy  turf, 
but  he  never  relaxed  from  his  stern  contempt  of  all  things 
not  British,  and  particularly  of  Latin  equestrianism.  I 
think  that  and  the  Englishman's  incurable  homesickness 
were  too  much  for  him,  for  a  year  or  two  later  I  heard 
to  my  great  regret  that  poor  Tom  had  lost  his  mind  and 
had  had  to  be  removed  to  an  asylum. 

There  are  other  animals,  besides  oxen,  to  whom  it  is 
well  to  give  a  wide  berth  on  the  Campagna  —  the  sheep- 
dogs. They  take  their  calling  seriously  and  will  let  no 
stranger  come  within  speaking  distance  of  their  flocks. 
There  are  two  or  more  to  each  flock,  and  when  they  scent 
danger  they  send  up  a  peculiar  howl  which  summons  the 
guardians  of  any  others  in  the  vicinity,  so  that  before  one 
knows  it  one  may  find  oneself  the  centre  of  quite  a  mob 
of  these  formidable  creatures,  baying  and  leaping  round 
one  and  thirsting  for  one's  blood.  They  are  exceedingly 
handsome,  of  a  pure  ivory  white,  with  long  silky  coats 
and  well-feathered  tails,  the  head  broad  at  the  brow  and 
pointed  at  the  muzzle  in  approved  sheep-dog  style. 
Brought  up  at  home,  they  show  great  affection  for  their 
masters  and  acquire  charming  manners,  but  as  profes- 
sionals, in  the  exercise  of  their  duty,  they  are  rather  ter- 
rifying. They  particularly  distrust  mounted  visitors,  and 

25 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

it  is  more  dangerous  to  approach  them  on  horseback  than 
on  foot.  Once,  I  was  out  with  Dr.  Nevin,  the  American 
clergyman,  an  old  cavalry  officer  and  an  enthusiastic  rider, 
who  ought  to  have  known  every  trick  of  the  Campagna 
and  its  beasts,  when  we  stumbled  right  into  a  flock  of 
sheep,  and  the  next  moment  we  were  attacked  by  five  or 
six  infuriated  sheep-dogs,  barking  madly,  leaping  at  our 
horses'  throats,  catching  at  the  skirt  of  my  riding  habit 
and  Dr.  Nevin's  long  coat  in  the  effort  to  drag  us 
down  from  our  saddles.  The  horses  were  badly  fright- 
ened, but  managed  to  kick  quite  judiciously,  and  broke 
away  before  either  they  or  we  had  been  hurt.  We  had 
a  good  run  then  with  the  dogs  in  full  pursuit  at  first;  then 
they  left  us  alone  and  returned  stolidly  to  their  re- 
spective posts. 

Talking  of  the  sheep-dog,  whom  somebody  has  rightly 
called  "  that  bundle  of  intelligence,"  I  would  note  the 
fact  that  he  has  another  delightful  quality  rather  unusual 
in  big  dogs  —  humour.  One  of  the  quaintest  incidents 
I  ever  saw  occurred  in  a  South  Devon  watering-place 
where  we  used  to  spend  a  good  deal  of  our  time.  As 
the  clock  struck  twelve,  one  fine  summer's  day,  a  large 
flock  of  sheep  was  driven  in  at  the  upper  end  of  the  town, 
through  the  whole  length  of  which  they  had  to  pass  to 
come  out  on  the  Exeter  road  beyond.  One  very  old  sheep- 
dog accompanied  them,  but  just  as  they  had  passed  the 
schoolhouse,  the  doors  were  opened  and  a  crowd  of  lit- 
tle children  tumbled  out  into  the  street.  The  dog  saw 
that  the  sheep  could  make  but  few  mistakes  in  the  straight 
street,  so  he  deliberately  turned  back  and  started  to  drive 
the  children  after  them.  Running  round  and  round,  bark- 
ing peremptorily,  pushing  the  stragglers  into  place,  he 
got  some  fifty  or  sixty  little  ones  into  a  compact  mass,  and 

26 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 

drove  them  along  in  the  wake  of  the  sheep.  The  chil- 
dren saw  the  joke  and  were  immensely  amused,  but  not 
one  dared  to  drop  out  till  the  old  dog,  visibly  laughing 
too,  said  good-bye  with  a  bark  and  a  wag,  and  bounded 
away  after  his  own  flock. 

I  have  always  wondered  why  the  dogs  that  accom- 
panied the  goats,  when  they  were  driven  into  Rome  to 
be  milked  in  the  morning,  were  not  proper  sheep-dogs, 
but  rather  mild-tempered  mongrels  of  every  imaginable 
variety.  I  suppose  the  real  sheep-dog  would  consider  it 
beneath  his  dignity  to  look  after  mere  goats,  despised 
creatures  belonging  to  poor  peasants !  Nevertheless,  their 
daily  visit  was  one  of  the  pleasures  of  my  youth  —  when 
I  was  not  too  sleepy  to  get  up  and  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow towards  six  or  seven  A.M.  Their  coming  was  her- 
alded by  the  soft  tinkling  of  two  or  three  bronze  bells 
hung  round  the  necks  of  the  leaders  of  the  flocks,  and  then 
came  the  quick  pattering  of  the  little  hoofs  over  the  pave- 
ment of  the  Piazza  SS.  Apostoli.  They  had  their  regu- 
lar points  of  call,  and  that  was  one  of  them,  in  the  angle 
formed  by  the  side  of  the  convent  attached  to  the  Church, 
and  the  small  steep  street  which  was  one  of  the  outlets 
of  the  Piazza.  There  they  would  stay  for  perhaps  half 
an  hour,  in  the  warm  brown  shade,  while  the  people  from 
all  the  houses  round  ran  down  with  mugs  and  pitchers 
which  the  goatherd,  a  handsome  young  contadino,  in 
peaked  hat,  goatskin  leggings,  and  scarlet  vest,  filled  with 
creamy,  foaming  milk  for  about  twopence  a  quart.  I 
was  often  ordered  to  drink  it,  and  the  tall  glass  overflow- 
ing with  warm  ivory  froth  was  such  a  pretty  object  that 
it  made  me  forget  the  rather  rank  flavour  of  the  draught. 

Long  before  the  goats  came  in,  however,  the  silence  of 
the  dawn  had  been  broken  by  the  strange  sad  cry  of  the 

27 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

"  Acqua  Vi  "  man,  who,  announcing  his  wares  in  an 
almost  funereal  tone,  lured  the  earliest  labourers  and 
artisans,  on  their  way  to  their  work,  to  begin  the  day 
with  a  nip  of  spirits.  He  was  followed  by  two  "  cal- 
derari,"  or  tinkers,  who  must  have  had  some  secret  feud, 
for  they  came  along  within  a  few  minutes  of  each  other 
every  day  on  the  same  beat,  and  even  Roman  pots  and 
kettles  do  not  break  down  every  day.  One  man  announced 
himself  in  deep  and  hollow  tones,  his  long-drawn  "  Cal- 
de-raro!  "  sounding  like  a  passing-bell;  the  other  was  all 
that  was  gay  and  sprightly,  and  his  cry  was  like  a  ripple 
of  laughter,  ending  on  an  impossibly  high  note.  Then 
there  was  the  tramp  cobbler,  the  seller  of  roasted  melon 
seeds  (bruscolinaro),  the  umbrella-mender,  and  I  do  not 
know  how  many  more;  musical,  friendly,  familiar,  the 
old  street  cries  gave  a  great  charm  to  the  morning  hours. 
At  one  time,  in  a  certain  warm  spring  and  summer,  I 
was  taken  with  a  passion  for  early  rising,  and  with  my 
mountain-born  maid,  Adelina,  used  to  be  out  and  away 
long  before  the  sun  was  up,  walking  for  miles  outside 
one  of  the  gates  and  enjoying  every  minute  of  the  divine 
morning  freshness.  The  infancy  of  the  day  is  a  very 
wonderful  thing  anywhere,  but  most  of  all  in  my  own 
Romagna,  where  the  glow  of  the  later  hours  and  the 
riotous  colours  of  sunset  have  a  ripeness  which  blends 
but  too  well  with  the  ancientness  of  the  buildings  and  the 
gilded  tumble  of  the  ruins  that  are,  and  always  will  be, 
Campagna's  landmarks.  But  at  dawn  it  is  all  young, 
bland,  mysteriously  dewy  and  immaculate,  tint  blending 
into  tint,  and  shadow  shaded  through  a  hundred  inde- 
finable modulations  of  unborn  blue  and  hinted  violet 
and  cloud  grey,  that  will  be  plain  gold  later  in  the  day. 
One  of  my  favourite  haunts  at  that  hour  was  the 

28 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 

"Giardino  Colonna"  which  stretches  up  in  a  series  of 
terraces  from  behind  the  palace  just  across  the  square 
from  the  Odescalchi,  to  end  on  the  Quirinal  in  Piazza,  di 
Monto  Cavallo.  On  the  lower  level  the  gardens  can  only 
be  approached  from  the  house,  with  which  they  are  con- 
nected by  a  series  of  little  ornamental  bridges  thrown 
across  a  deep  and  narrow  intervening  street  utilised  as 
a  mews  for  the  palace,  but  on  the  hill  an  imposing  iron 
gateway,  topped  by  the  gilt  crown  and  column  which  are 
the  arms  of  the  "  Lustrissima  Casa  Colonna,"  gives  ac- 
cess to  a  paradise  of  trees  and  flowers  and  fountains  which 
is  the  more  delightful  because  so  unexpected  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  city. 

Italian  gardens,  though  generally  planned  to  give  one 
iniposing  spectacle  of  some  kind,  with  great  wealth  of 
statues  and  marble  balustrades  and  elaborate  formations 
or  quiet  stretches  of  water,  are  rich  in  small  sequestered 
courts  of  flowers  and  greenery;  the  people  who  seem  to 
have  cared  least  for  privacy  in  their  houses  took  pains 
to  make  many  solitudes  in  their  gardens.  Doubtless  the 
desire  for  shade  from  summer  heats  had  much  to  do 
with  the  intricate  —  apartments,  one  might  almost  call 
them  —  which  diversify  the  villas  and  cut  off  spot  after 
spot  in  an  absolute  seclusion  of  high  box  walls  and  over- 
arching trees,  entered  only  by  one  small  opening  some- 
where in  the  otherwise  impenetrable  hedge.  And,  inci- 
dentally, the  screened  shelter  thus  afforded  has  fostered 
the  growth  and  all-winter  blooming  of  more  delicate  flow- 
ers and  shrubs  than  could  have  survived  the  sudden  attacks 
of  the  "  tramontana,"  in  the  open.  The  "  Giardino 
Colonna  "  was  full  of  charming  surprises  of  the  kind 
one  remembers  gratefully  in  the  more  arid  stretches  of 
life.  One  particular  morning  there  remains  very  clearly 

29 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

imprinted  on  my  memory,  a  morning  of  June,  when  I  was 
running  about  with  my  small  half-brother  and  sister,  feel- 
ing very  much  their  age.  I  had  lost  sight  of  them  for 
a  moment,  and  in  seeking  for  them  broke  into  an  en- 
closure I  had  not  seen  before.  Two  or  three  tiny  ter- 
races, bordered  with  old  bas-reliefs,  lay  just  touched  by 
the  first  rays  of  the  sun;  a  delicate  mimosa  tree,  very 
feathery  and  fragile,  stood  within  reach  of  the  spray  of 
a  fountain  that  sent  a  shaft  of  diamonds  high  into  the 
air;  all  around  was  a  tangle  of  Banksia  roses  and  white 
lilies,  and  an  ancient  sarcophagus  of  honey-coloured  mar- 
ble on  the  top  terrace,  overflowing  with  ferns,  looked 
like  a  golden  casket  in  the  low  sunbeams.  Every  branch 
and  leaf  and  petal  was  pearled  with  dew  and  spray,  and 
the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  in  that  miraculous  freshness 
of  the  morning  was  almost  too  sweet  for  mortal  senses 
to  hear. 

It  is  so  funny  to  see  some  of  our  brilliant  decadents 
in  art  and  literature  trying  to  embody  their  ideas  of  the 
"  joie  de  vlvre "  in  pictures  of  wild  debauch,  in  mad 
dances  of  painted  girls  and  drunken  youths,  in  reproduc- 
tions of  the  entertainments  invented  to  stimulate  the  senses 
of  the  old  Romans  and  Egyptians  —  people  already  half 
dead  with  satiety  and  incapable  of  experiencing  a  single 
thrill  of  healthy  pleasure.  Five  minutes  of  existence, 
given  a  young  heart  in  a  young  body,  on  a  summer  dawn 
amid  the  flowers,  outtops  their  crude  imaginings  of  the 
joy  of  life  as  completely  as  the  rising  sunbeams  outshine 
our  poor  artificial  lights. 

I  have  been  afraid  to  ask  after  the  "  Giardino 
Colonna  "  of  late  years.  So  many  other  Roman  gardens 
have  been  destroyed  by  the  beauty-haters  who  rule  the 
city  that  I  am  always  expecting  to  be  told  that  it  exists 

30 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 

no  longer.  The  great  process  of  destruction  has  not 
been  confined  to  Rome  alone.  Only  the  other  day  I  learnt 
from  a  correspondent  that  the  lovely  Villa  Doria  at  Pegli 
has  been  swept  away  to  "make  room"  (in  our  half- 
depopulated  Italy!)  for  a  German  soap  factory!  To 
the  vultures  of  commerce  nothing  is  sacred.  All  that  is 
ancient  and  beautiful  is  an  insult  to  the  industrial  no- 
bodies, with  their  sordid  past  and  their  ignoble  future. 
The  more  perfect  a  spot  is  the  more  it  arouses  their 
desire  to  destroy  it  and  annihilate  even  its  memory  by 
using  its  site  for  the  basest  ends.  After  all,  everybody 
feels  more  at  home  in  a  background  suited  to  his 
complexion ! 

I  spoke  in  another  book  *  of  some  forgotten  villas 
that  my  sister  and  I  discovered  in  the  vicinity  of  Rome. 
One  of  these  has,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  escaped  the 
notice  of  the  modern  vandal,  and  I  have  no  intention 
of  revealing  to  him  its  name  or  location.  Lying  far  out 
of  the  city,  in  a  depression  of  the  Campagna,  it  is  in- 
visible till  one  is  close  upon  it,  and  we  had  passed  near 
it  hundreds  of  times  before  an  accident  revealed  its  exist- 
ence to  us.  The  very  road  to  it  is  unmarked  on  the 
guide-book  maps,  and  even  from  the  road  little  is  to  be 
seen  through  the  iron  gate  in  the  high  brick  wall  save  a 
formal  court  overgrown  with  grass,  and  a  long  low  house, 
of  graceful  architecture,  but  much  defaced  by  time  and 
weather.  Something  of  a  mournful  dignity  in  its  aspect 
attracted  us,  and  my  sister  suggested  that  we  should  alight 
from  the  carriage  and  see  if  we  could  get  in.  After  ring- 
ing many  times  at  the  iron  gate,  we  saw  an  alarmed 
contadino  regarding  us  suspiciously  from  a  corner  of  the 
house,  evidently  uncertain  as  to  our  character  and  mo- 

*"A  Diplomatist's  Wife  in  Many  Lands." 
31 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

tives.  We  lost  no  time  in  explanations,  but  promised  him 
a  lira  if  he  would  open  the  gate,  whereupon  he  took 
courage,  came  and  examined  us  more  closely,  and,  see- 
ing only  two  young  girls  with  a  private  carriage  and 
a  respectable  family  coachman  smiling  in  amusement  at 
our  enthusiasm,  the  guardian  of  the  place  relented  and 
let  us  in. 

Then  we  realised  what  we  had  found.  That  which 
we  had  taken  for  the  front  of  the  house  was  only  its 
back,  turned,  Moorish  fashion,  to  the  public  road.  Its 
front,  all  balconies  and  arches  and  tall  old  windows, 
looked  towards  the  southeast,  and  from  the  first  terrace, 
with  its  supporting  colonnade,  the  ground  sloped  away 
in  ever-widening  spaces  of  wild  greenery  intersected  with 
thick  avenues  of  ilex  trees  that  twisted  away  and  lost 
themselves  in  dells  beyond  our  view.  The  house  really 
stood  high,  and  was  placed  just  where  an  opening  in  the 
undulations  beyond  gave  a  wide  view  of  the  Campagna 
stretching  away  to  Tivoli  and  the  Sabine  Hills;  but  a 
moment  after  stepping  down  from  that  first  terrace  the 
outside  world  vanished  and  we  found  ourselves  in  one 
of  the  dream-gardens  of  the  Renaissance,  where  it  seemed 
as  if  no  foot  had  trod  for  the  last  hundred  years.  The 
ilexes,  all  untrimmed,  had  united  in  dense  roofs  over 
the  grass-grown  avenues;  the  syringa  had  everywhere  so 
interwoven  itself  with  the  high  box  hedges  that  these 
were  now  three  and  four  feet  thick  and  all  abloom  in 
their  impenetrable  interstices  with  white  stars  of  sweetest 
perfume,  mingling  with  the  white  cups  of  morning  glories, 
unearthly  pure  and  scentless,  like  the  love  prayers  of  a 
little  nun. 

In  ecstatic  silence  we  went  on  and  on,  catching  glimpses, 
through  the  rare  openings  in  the  green  walls  on  either 

32 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MODERN  ROME 

hand,  of  broad  enclosures  all  a  riot  of  flowers  and  grasses 
in  the  afternoon  sun.  It  must  have  been  at  least  a  hun- 
dred years  since  the  sun  had  struck  through  the  many- 
tiered  roof  over  our  heads  to  touch  the  brown  soil, 
bedded  down  with  the  leaves  and  acorns  of  a  hundred 
autumns,  under  our  feet.  The  shade  that  never  could 
be  shadow  seemed  painted  in  —  a  viewless  veil  of  clear 
grey-brown,  broken  to  an  oval  of  gold  where  an  archway 
in  the  hedge  let  in  the  westering  sun.  I  had  gathered 
a  handful  of  ilex  acorns,  those  delicate  gems  of  polished 
grey-green  set  each  in  its  fretted  cup  of  colder  grey  — 
when  a  turn  in  the  avenue  brought  us  to  a  standstill  be- 
fore a  statue  on  a  pedestal  —  a  young  god  in  very  old, 
dappled  marble,  his  arms  stretched  out,  his  head  thrown 
back,  as  if  calling  despairingly  after  some  vanished  wor- 
shipper. The  deep  greenery  rose  in  an  arch  above  him, 
the  green  walls  shrank  back  to  make  a  niche;  the  clear, 
colourless  light  touched  his  face  and  limbs  almost  to  life 
as  we  looked  at  him  —  and  then  his  appeal  was  answered. 
From  some  unseen  point  close  to  us  there  burst  forth  such 
a  torrent  of  heart-broken  song  as  can  only  come  from 
the  throat  of  an  Italian  nightingale  in  the  solitude  of 
a  lost  Italian  garden.  The  silver  notes  went  soaring  to 
heaven  and  fell  back  in  a  rain  of  music  like  audible  tears. 
Then,  from  far  away,  a  sister  Philomel  took  up  the 
strain,  another  and  another  broke  in  and  linked  it  on,  till 
all  the  air  was  a  delirium  of  music,  wild  and  sweet  and 
thrilling  —  going  up  from  the  little  brown  throats,  with- 
out money  and  without  price. 

The  nightingales'  hour  had  come,  and  we,  poor  human 
intruders,  crept  away  silently  and  left  the  lost  garden  to 
them. 


33 


CHAPTER    III 

LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 

St.  Peter's  First  Visit  to  Rome — Wide  Scope  of  His  Work— Rome  Des- 
tined to  Become  the  Seat  of  Ecclesiastical  Government — St.  Peter's 
Early  Converts — Persecution  of  the  Jews — Life  in  the  Catacombs — 
Simon  Magus  and  St.  Peter — Peter's  Return  to  Rome — Nero's  Slaugh- 
ter of  Christians — Peter's  Vision — "  Lord,  Whither  Goest  Thou  ?  " — 
Preparation  for  Martyrdom — Last  Epistle — St.  Peter's  Successor — 
Imprisonment  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul — Scenes  of  Final  Tragedy — 
Crucifixion  of  Peter — Paul  Beheaded — Devotion  of  Their  Followers. 

f  I  ^HE  perusal  of  the  histories  of  Rome,  both  ancient 
JL  and  modern,  inspires  the  reader  with  amazement, 
when  he  realises  that,  despite  countless  invasions,  de- 
structions, and  changes,  certain  apparently  obscure  land- 
marks of  events  which  took  place  in  the  city  during  the 
first  century  after  Christ,  still  exist,  uneffaced  and  unfor- 
gotten.  Yet  so  it  is,  particularly  in  regard  to  those  con- 
nected with  the  sojourn  of  St.  Peter  in  Rome.  The  devout 
pilgrim  may  visit  them  to-day  with  as  little  doubt  as  to 
their  identity  as  did  his  ancestor  in  the  Faith  nearly  two 
thousand  years  ago.  The  Apostle's  first  visit  to  Rome 
took  place,  according  to  St.  Jerome,  Eusebius,  and  the 
old  Roman  Calendar  of  Bucherius,  in  the  year  45  of  our 
era.  Among  illiterate  sectarians  it  was  still  attempted, 
when  I  was  young,  to  uphold  the  theory,  invented  by  the 
so-called  Reformers,  that  he  had  never  been  in  Rome 
at  all.  Our  separated  brethren  have  since  grown  more 
enlightened  and  do  not  like  to  be  reminded  of  that  con- 
tention, annihilated  again  and  again  even  by  their  own 
historians,  notably  by  Baratier,  a  Protestant  divine  who 

34 


LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 

published  his  "  Chronological  Inquiry  "  relating  to  the 
Bishops  of  Rome,  from  Peter  to  Victor,  at  Utrecht,  in 
1740,  and  by  the  learned  Protestant  Bishop  Pearson,  who 
had  preceded  him  in  the  task  of  demonstrating  incon- 
trovertibly  that  St.  Peter  had  held  that  See  for  many 
years.  On  the  dispersion  of  the  Apostles  after  the  first 
persecution  in  Jerusalem,  St.  Peter  had  reserved  the  per- 
ilous enterprise  of  the  Conquest  of  "Babylon"  (as  the 
seat  of  empire  was  at  that  time  called  by  the  Christians) 
for  himself,  but  there  was  other  and  nearer  work  for 
him  to  accomplish  first,  and  it  was  only  some  twelve  years 
'later  that  he  found  it  possible  to  carry  out  his  intention. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  travelled  and  preached  un- 
ceasingly in  Asia  Minor,  where  during  those  years  he 
organised  and  held  the  Bishopric  of  Antioch,  the  third 
greatest  city  of  the  Empire.  From  thence  he  instituted 
the  See  of  Alexandria,  of  which  he  constituted  St.  Mark 
the  Bishop,  at  the  same  time  decreeing  that  Alexandria 
should  be  the  second  church  of  the  world,  taking  prece- 
dence of  Antioch,  which  thenceforth  ranked  as  the  third.* 
There  had  evidently  never  been  any  doubt  in  his  mind 
that  Rome  was  to  be  the  first,  the  seat  of  ecclesiastical 
government,  long  prepared  for  that  destiny  by  the  decrees 
of  Providence,  carried  out,  as  sealed  orders,  by  her  con- 
quering armies  abroad,  and  by  the  perfection  of  her  far- 
reaching- yet  completely  centralised  system  of  organisa- 
tion at  home.  We  all  know  that  the  actual  computation 
of  the  Christian  era  is  a  slightly  faulty  one,  owing  to 
the  great  laxity  and  confusion  prevailing  in  the  chronology 
of  the  Empire  at  the  time  of  the  birth  of  Christ.  But, 
this  much  is  certain  —  that  some  twelve  years  after  the 

*  Constantinople  and  Jerusalem  were  added  in  after  times  to  the  list, 
but  only  attained  this  honour  bv  the  consent  of  the  reigning  Pontiff. 

35 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

ascension  of  our  Lord,  St.  Peter  came  to  preach  the  Faith 
in  Rome.  St.  Leo  the  Great  (440  A.D.),  in  his  splendid 
sermon  on  this  subject,  describes  how  the  capital  of  the 
Empire,  "  ignorant  of  the  Divine  Author  of  her  destinies, 
had  made  herself  the  slave  of  the  errors  of  all  the  races, 
at  the  very  moment  when  she  held  them  under  her  laws. 
She  thought  she  possessed  a  great  religion  because  she 
had  accepted  every  falsehood,  but  the  more  closely  she  was 
held  in  durance  by  Satan  the  more  marvellously  was  she 
delivered  by  Christ."  Then,  after  narrating  the  parti- 
tion of  the  evangelisation  of  the  world  among  the 
Apostles,  he  exclaims:  "And  dost  thou  not  fear,  Peter, 
to  come  alone  into  this  city?  Paul,  the  companion  of 
thy  glory,  is  still  occupied  in  founding  other  Churches; 
and  thou,  thou  dost  plunge  into  this  forest  peopled  with 
wild  beasts,  thou  treadest  this  ocean,  whose  depths  growl 
with  tempests,  with  more  courage  than  on  the  day  when 
thou  didst  walk  on  the  waters  towards  thy  Lord  I  And 
thou  fearest  not  Rome,  the  mistress  of  the  world,  thou 
who,  in  the  house  of  Caiaphas  didst  tremble  at  the  voice 
of  a  serving  maid?  Was  the  tribunal  of  Pilate,  or  the 
cruelty  of  the  Jews,  more  to  be  feared  than  the  power 
of  a  Claudius  or  the  ferocity  of  a  Nero?  No,  but  the 
strength  of  thy  love  triumphed  over  fear,  and  thou  didst 
not  count  them  terrible  whom  thou  hadst  been  com- 
manded to  love." 

Would  that  some  faithful  companion  had  written 
down  for  us  some  details  of  that  first  arrival  of  St.  Peter 
in  Rome!  Did  he  come  by  sea  to  Ostia,  or  to  Par- 
thenopeia,  like  St.  Paul?  That  seems  the  more  likely 
conclusion,  as,  given  fair  winds,  it  was  the  route  usually 
taken  from  the  parts  of  Palestine  or  Asia  Minor.  But 
what  must  have  been  his  feelings  when,  from  far  off,  he 

36 


LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 

first  beheld  the  gorgeous,  insolent  city,  towering  in  gold 
and  marble  on  its  seven  hills,  swarming  with  its  two 
million  inhabitants,  of  whose  very  language  he  was 
ignorant!  Did  some  of  the  few  brethren  then  come  out 
to  meet  him,  as  they  did  St.  Paul,  later?  If  he  entered 
by  the  Ostian  Way,  he  must  have  passed  quite  near  to 
the  spot  which  was  to  witness  their  double  martyrdom 
twenty-five  years  afterwards.  All  we  know  is  that  his 
intrepid  soul  was  not  affrighted  at  the  wealth  and  splen- 
dour of  the  hostile  city  which  he  meant  to  win  back  to 
his  Master  before  his  own  labours  should  cease.  From 
that  day,  although  he  had  to  leave  it  again  and  again 
to  attend  to  the  churches  elsewhere,  Rome  was  his  home, 
his  especial  fold,  the  centre  of  Christendom,  and  the 
Holy  City  of  generations  to  come,  since  Jerusalem  had 
forfeited  that  title  forever. 

It  was  not  to  the  owners  of  Rome,  but  to  the  thou- 
sands of  poor  Jews  who  had  been  brought  there  as  cap- 
tives, that  St.  Peter  first  came  to  preach.  Already  they 
were  the  despised  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water 
for  their  enemies,  and  had  managed,  very  early  in  their 
sojourn,  to  rouse  the  ire  of  their  Roman  masters.  At 
first  the  Christian  converts  in  Rome  were  entirely  drawn 
from  their  ranks,  and  the  Romans  called  them  all 
"  Jews,"  and  occasionally  banished  them,  as  I  have  said 
elsewhere,  from  the  city,  to  that  spot,  near  the  Porta 
Capena,  which  afterwards  became  the  headquarters  of 
the  Church  through  centuries  of  persecution.  Here,  at 
least,  they  could  do  as  they  liked,  and  no  one  seems  to 
have  taken  exception  to  their  commencing  that  series  of 
widely  spreading  underground  labyrinths  known  now  as 
the  Catacombs,  and  usually  regarded,  quite  mistakenly,  as 
having  been  intended  solely  for  purposes  of  sepulture. 

37 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

That  was  provided  for  as  one  of  its  great  objects,  cer- 
tainly; but  there  were  Churches  where  crowds  could  kneel 
together  in  worship  round  the  tomb  of  some  illustrious 
martyr;  and  there  were  halls  and  chambers  as  well, 
where,  as  after  history  showed,  whole  communities  could 
live  for  weeks  or  months  when  it  was  not  safe  for  Chris- 
tians to  show  their  faces  above  ground. 

St.  Peter  had  it  from  his  Master's  lips  that  he  should 
follow  Him  in  the  manner  of  His  death,  but  the  day  fixed 
by  the  Lord  for  that  "birthday"  (as  the  Christians 
called  martyrdom)  was  hidden  from  him  till  almost  the 
end.  He  was  away  from  Rome  when  he  heard  that  his 
once  defeated  adversary,  the  wizard-impostor,  Simon 
Magus,  was  revelling  there  in  the  favour  of  Nero,  and 
regarded  by  all  as  almost,  if  not  actually,  a  god.  The 
calling  of  the  necromancer  appealed  strongly  to  Pagan 
sympathies  at  that  time,  and  Nero  was  only  too  delighted 
to  possess  himself  of  the  services  of  the  famous  magician. 
He  showered  gifts  upon  him,  brought  him  to  live  in  his 
own  palace,  and  caused,  or  permitted  a  statue  of  him  to 
be  erected,  of  which  the  inscription  attested  his  supposed 
divinity.  So  Simon  Magus  was  the  chief  favourite,  and 
was  exercising  whatever  he  had  of  unholy  power,  to  make 
himself  necessary  to  the  Emperor  and  feared  by  the  peo- 
ple. Although  the  fiercest  of  persecutions  was  raging, 
St.  Peter  at  once  came  back  to  Rome  to  confront  and  con- 
found the  diabolical  impostor,  even  as  he  had  done  in 
Samaria,  years  before,  when  he  (from  whom  all  traffic 
in  holy  things  was  named)  offered  the  Apostles  money  if 
they  would  impart  to  him  the  power  conferred  on  them 
by  the  Holy  Ghost. 

Nero,  after  reigning  for  five  years  with  unusual  mild- 
ness for  those  times,  had,  with  the  murder  of  his  mother, 

38 


LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 

Agrippina,  inaugurated  a  carnival  of  slaughter,  and  the 
Christians  were  suffering  terribly.  St.  Peter  hastened  to 
sustain  their  courage  and  also  their  faith,  fearing,  as  we 
are  told,  that  the  weaker  brethren  might  be  led  astray 
by  the  skill  of  the  magician,  who,  like  all  his  kind,  could 
sometimes  command  the  powers  of  darkness  and  was  able 
to  supplement  them  by  trickery  when  they  failed  him. 

St.  Peter  feared  for  the  flock  over  whom  he  had  ruled 
in  person  for  some  twenty-five  years,  so,  as  St.  Jerome 
and  other  great  authorities  tell  us,  he  made  all  the  speed 
he  could,  and  arrived  in  Rome  to  find  the  persecution 
at  its  height.  It  was  at  this  time  that  she  who  had  been 
Peter's  wife  in  his  youth,  but  whom,  ever  since  the  hour 
when  he  was  called  by  the  Lord,  he  had  regarded  as  a 
sister,  and  who  had  followed  to  minister  to  him  in  his 
wanderings,  was  led  forth  with  other  Christians  to  mar- 
tyrdom. St.  Clement  of  Alexandria  describes  the  scene, 
and  tells  us  that,  as  they  passed  before  St.  Peter,  who 
had  been  blessing  them  and  praying  for  them,  his  last 
farewell  to  this  faithful  woman  was  summed  up  in  three 
words,  "  Oh,  remember  the  Lord!  " 

All  the  love  and  longing  of  Peter's  heart,  all  the  tender 
memories  of  the  Redeemer's  blessed  presence  in  their 
own  house,  were  in  the  cry.  She  passed  on,  and  won  her 
crown  first,  but  the  Apostle  had  but  a  little  while  to  wait 
for  his.  Simon  Magus,  crazed  with  pride,  had  promised 
to  give  the  Emperor  the  most  magnificent  proof  of  his 
supernatural  powers  —  he  should  behold  him  fly  to 
•heaven!  Nero  was  delighted.  A  high  and  richly  deco- 
rated scaffolding  was  erected,  from  which  the  Mage  was 
to  take  his  flight;  a  throne  was  raised  opposite  to  it, 
whence  his  patron  could  watch  his  triumph;  and  the 
whole  city  crowded  to  the  spot  to  witness  and  applaud. 

39 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Not  far  off  in  the  crowd  some  poorly  clad  "  Jews  " 
surrounded  an  old  man  called  Peter,  who  knelt  and 
prayed  —  prayed  fervently  that  God  would  confound  the 
wicked  and  not  permit  His  servants  to  be  deluded  by  the 
snares  of  the  Evil  One. 

The  great  moment  came.  After  pompous  orations  and 
loud  acclaims,  Simon  Magus  leapt  from  the  scaffolding 
—  and  fell,  a  mangled  heap,  at  the  feet  of  Nero,  whose 
face  and  garments  were  sprinkled  with  his  blood.  He 
lingered  for  two  or  three  days  and  then  expired  misera- 
bly. The  superstitious  Emperor  believed  that  magic  had 
been  pitted  against  magic  to  compass  his  own  humiliation 
and  his  favourite's  downfall.  Who  was  the  offender? 
Then  some  courtier  pointed  out  the  grey-haired  man  with 
the  tear  furrows  in  his  cheeks,  now  returning  thanks  to 
God,  and  from  that  time  the  doom  of  the  Apostle  was 
sealed. 

Not  at  once  did  the  tyrant's  servants  succeed  in  laying 
hands  on  St.  Peter.  The  Christians,  ready  enough  them- 
selves to  face  martyrdom  and  rejoin  the  victors  who  had 
gone  before,  could  not  reconcile  themselves  to  the  loss 
of  the  beloved  Shepherd  of  their  souls,  and  urged  him, 
with  wild  entreaties,  to  flee  to  safety.  He  was  still 
needed,  they  said;  it  could  not  be  God's  will  that  the 
Church  should  be  left  desolate  of  his  sustaining  presence 
in  such  evil  times.  Sorely  against  his  will  he  consented 
to  leave  the  city,  but,  as  he  chose  the  Appian  Way  for 
his  flight,  it  is  clear  that  he  only  contemplated  remain- 
ing hidden  for  a  time  in  the  subterranean  retreats  of 
the  Pagus  Triopius;  had  he  meant  to  reach  the  coast,  he 
would  have  taken  the  road  to  Ostia,  emerging  from  the 
opposite  and  lower  end  of  the  town.  In  the  very  first 
years  of  his  Pontificate  in  Rome,  an  edict  of  Claudius  had 

40 


LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 

banished  the  "  Jews  "  from  the  city  and  it  is  believed  that 
St.  Peter  accompanied  them  in  their  exile  to  this  spot, 
and  he  would  naturally  turn  to  it  in  an  emergency. 

But,  a  little  beyond  the  first  milestone,  the  Apostle's 
steps  were  arrested  by  a  vision  which  must  have  filled 
him  with  joy  and  yet  wrung  his  heart  with  memories  of 
pain.*  One  came  towards  him  through  the  dusk,  bear- 
ing a  cross.  The  never-to-be-forgotten  eyes  once  more 
looked  into  his.  We  can  almost  hear  now  the  wild  cry 
of  the  Apostle  — "  Lord,  whither  goest  Thou?  " 

"  To  Rome  to  be  crucified  anew,"  was  the  answer. 

The  vision  faded  away,  and,  with  a  heart  breaking 
with  joy  and  love,  the  Apostle  retraced  his  steps  and 
told  the  faithful  of  the  Lord's  will,  now  so  clearly  re- 
vealed. '  The  Prince  of  Pastors  "  had  spoken.  The 
hour  for  which  His  great  vicar  had  waited  so  long  was 
at  hand  —  the  martyrdom  for  which  he  thirsted,  already 
prepared.  The  weeping  brethren  went  out  to  see  the 
place  where  Christ  had  met  their  Spiritual  Father,  and 
found  there  the  impress  of  the  Saviour's  blessed  foot 
upon  the  stone.  Later  a  church  t  was  erected  at  the  spot, 
but  at  that  time  all  that  was  possible  was  to  cover  the 
sacred  footprint  and  mark  the  site  for  veneration.  (This 
stone  was  afterwards  removed  to  the  Church  of  St. 
Sebastian,  but  a  copy  of  it  is  still  kept  at  Domine  Quo 
Vadis.)  Every  trace  of  -the  history  of  the  Faith  was  so 
inexpressibly  dear  to  those  loving  hearts!  One  disciple, 

*  St.  Ambrose,  Sermo  contra  Auxentiura,  No.  13;  Hegesipp.,  lib.  Ill; 
S.  Greg.  Magn.  in  Psalm  IV,  Penitentiae. 

t  Cardinal  Pole,  after  much  research,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
site  chosen  for  the  Church  of  "  Domine  Quo  Vadis  "  was  a  mistaken  one, 
and  erected  a  tiny  circular  chapel  at  another  crossroad  which  he  believed 
had  witnessed  the  mysterious  encounter.  This  chapel  is  a  humble  little 
building,  only  a  few  feet  in  diameter.  St  Peter's  question  is  inscribed 
over  the  door. 

41 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

who  must  have  followed  St.  Peter  at  a  distance  on  that 
memorable  night,  found  in  the  path  a  little  bandage  which 
had  detached  itself  from  his  foot  (were  his  feet  sore  and 
cut  from  the  many  weary  steps  that  the  saving  of  souls 
had  cost  him?)  and  this  was  reverently  treasured,  and  a 
Basilica  called  "  In  Titulus  Fasciolae,"  and  now  known 
as  the  Church  of  SS.  Nereus  and  Achilleus,  was  erected 
in  after  years  to  mark  the  spot  and  guard  the  humble 
souvenir. 

All  this  happened  apparently  in  the  month  of  Septem- 
ber or  October.  Within  a  year,  at  most,  the  mourning 
Christians,  led  by  Clement,  Peter's  successor,  put  up  the 
marble  tablet —  found  in  1911  —  a  small  tablet  of  green- 
ish marble,  on  which  these  words  were  inscribed: 

"  Here  the  Blessed  Peter  absolved  us,  the  elect,  from 
the  sins  confessed." 

But  what  a  chapter  of  history  had  been  written  be- 
tween! St.  Peter  returned  to  the  city  and  disposed  all 
things  for  his  death.  His  first  care  was  to  write  his 
second  Epistle  General,  his  last  will  and  testament,  and 
his  farewell  to  the  faithful.  "  In  a  little  while,"  he  says, 
speaking  of  his  mortal  body,  "  this  my  tent  will  be  folded 
away,  as  was  signified  to  me  by  the  Lord  Himself,"  thus 
evidently  referring  to  the  vision  on  the  Appian  Way. 
Only  the  words  of  our  Divine  Lord  surpass  in  majesty 
and  tenderness  that  last  Epistle  of  St.  Peter.  Heaven 
was  very  near  as  he  wrote  it,  the  celestial  melodies  were 
already  in  his  ears,  the  recent  apparition  of  his  Master 
had  filled  his  heart  with  love  and  longing  almost  too 
great  to  be  borne,  but  that  love  translates  itself  into  the 
most  tender  parental  care  for  the  children  he  was  leaving 
behind.  With  what  tears  and  devotion  must  the  letter 
have  been  received  in  the  different  Churches  that  had 

42 


LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 

known  his  care,  when  it  oame  to  them  accompanied  by 
the  news  of  his  death! 

More  important  even  than  his  farewell  to  his  children 
was  the  matter  of  appointing  his  successor,  the  second 
of  the  long  line  of  which  our  own  beloved  Pius  X  is  the 
present  representative.  Although  Linus  had  been  for  ten 
years  St.  Peter's  fervent  auxiliary  Bishop,  his  right  hand 
in  the  government  of  the  Church,  whose  vast  growth  had 
made  it  necessary  in  turn  to  appoint  Cletus  as  auxiliary 
to  Linus,  the  Apostle  passed  over  them  and  chose 
Clement  to  immediately  succeed  him  as  the  Vicar  of 
Christ.*  Clement  with  his  noble  name,  his  great  gifts, 
and  his  eminent  holiness,  was  the  man  needed  in  Rome 
at  that  moment,  and,  as  Tertullian  and  St.  Epiphanius 
attest,  was  at  this  time  consecrated  by  St.  Peter  and  then 
solemnly  installed  by  him  as  head  of  the  Universal 
Church. 

Then  came  the  beginning  of  the  end,  but  the  first 
stage  was  a  long  and  weary  one.  St.  Paul,  it  appears, 
besides  his  reported  share  in  the  downfall  of  Simon 
Magus,  had  drawn  upon  himself  the  furious  wrath  of 
Nero  by  converting  two  of  his  favourites  in  the  palace 
itself,  one  a  concubine,  the  other  a  chamberlain  in  close 
attendance  on  his  person.  His  doom  was  pronounced  at 
the  same  time  as  that  of  St.  Peter,  though  the  manner  of 

•  St.  Clement  was  soon  exiled  to  the  Chersonesus,  where  he  remained 
for  several  years  before  his  martyrdom  there,  and  St.  Linus  during  his 
absence  filled  his  place  in  Rome  till  the  death  of  St.  Clement  and  his  own 
succession  to  the  Pontificate.  Hence,  many  historians  call  Linus  the 
immediate  successor  of  St.  Peter.  St.  Clement  occupied  the  Papal  Chair 
for  9  years,  6  months  and  6  days,  and,  whereas  modern  lay  historians 
give  the  length  of  St.  Linus*  reign  as  one  year,  he  reigned  in  reality 
for  ii  years,  2  months  and  23  days.  The  confusion  of  the  various  Roman 
calendars  at  the  time  of  the  birth  of  our  Lord  gave  rise  to  the  errors  in 
the  calculation  of  that  event  and  others  following  it.  Our  own  accepted 
date  is  on  that  account  some  years  removed  from  the  true  one. 

43 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

their  end  was  not  at  once  decided  upon.  St.  Paul  was 
removed  from  the  house  in  the  Via  Lata  (now  the 
Church  of  Santa  Maria  in  Via  Lata)  and,  with  St.  Peter, 
was  thrown  into  the  Mamertine  Prison,  and  kept  there 
for  eight  months.  The  very  name  of  this  dungeon  still 
brings  back  to  me  a  chill  of  fear  when  I  hear  it  pro- 
nounced, for  to  me  it  was  the  most  terrible  spot  in  all 
Rome.  Deep  under  the  eminence  which  is  crowned  by 
the  Capitol  is  a  chamber  cut  in  the  rock,  unlighted,  un- 
aired,  and  lined  with  the  huge  uncemented  blocks  which 
date  from  Rome's  prehistoric  times;  a  prison  dreadful 
enough  by  itself,  but  there  is  worse  below.  A  square 
aperture  in  the  floor,  just  large  enough  for  a  man's  body 
to  pass  through,  gives  access  to  another  dungeon  exca- 
vated beneath  it,  a  pit  of  blackness,  where  Jugurtha  and 
many  other  poor  wretches,  condemned  to  die  by  violence 
or  starvation,  moaned  their  lives  away,  before  it  was 
honoured  by  the  presence  of  the  Apostles.  They  were  let 
down  into  it  by  a  rope,  and  the  men  who  were  lowering 
St.  Peter  carried  out  their  task  with  such  brutal  rough- 
ness that  they  knocked  his  dear  head  violently  against 
the  wall,  in  his  descent.  The  wall  must  have  been  less 
hard  than  their  hearts,  for  it  took  the  impression,  and 
the  mark  has  been  kissed  for  close  on  two  thousand  years 
by  the  lips  of  ardent  pilgrims.  I  remember  touching  it, 
when,  as  a  child,  I  saw  it  first,  and  receiving  the  most 
extraordinary  thrill  of  a  living  reality  of  some  kind. 
There  is  now  a  staircase  by  which  to  descend  to  the  lower 
prison,  but  in  my  early  days  there  was  only  a  rough 
ladder  leading  into  what,  in  spite  of  the  guardian's  taper, 
showed  as  a  black  abyss.  The  place  is  thirty  feet  long 
and  twenty-two  wide,  with  a  height  of  sixteen  feet,  and 
was  often  crowded  with  captives.  We  do  not  know  how 

44 


LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 

many  it  contained  when  the  Apostles  (probably  not  on 
the  same  day)  were  brought  there;  stagnant  water  cov- 
ered the  floor,  and  fetid  odours  made  the  air  a  poison, 
but  where  St.  Peter's  feet  first  touched  the  pavement  a 
spring  of  clear  water  bubbled  up,  and  was  running  gaily 
when  I  visited  the  spot.  We  know  that  St.  Peter  and 
St.  Paul  converted  and  baptised  forty-seven  persons  in 
this  den,  besides  the  two  captains  of  their  guards,  St. 
Processus  and  St.  Marcellianus,  so  that  the  little  spring 
served  for  the  most  noble  ends. 

The  damp  cold  of  the  dungeon  is  so  deathly  that  the 
Apostles'  lives  must  have  been  preserved  as  by  a  miracle 
through  those  terrible  eight  months.  They  had  bidden 
farewell  to  the  light  in  the  golden  days  of  autumn;  they 
came  forth  to  meet  its  blinding  radiance  in  the  dazzle 
of  June.  Quickly  the  news  spread  among  the  Christians, 
ever  eager  to  hear  how  it  fared  with  their  revered  Pas- 
tors ;  and  already,  when  these  had  but  just  emerged  from 
their  dungeon,  loaded  with  chains  and  under  a  heavy 
guard,  the  intrepid  crowd  had  formed  in  procession  to 
accompany  them  to  their  triumph.  Their  sentences  were 
already  pronounced.  St.  Peter,  the  poor  Jew,  was  to  be 
scourged  and  crucified;  St.  Paul's  Roman  citizenship  for- 
bade these  humiliations;  he  was  to  be  beheaded. 

It  is  a  long  way  from  the  Capitol  to  the  Ostian  gate 
and  the  Vatican,  and  the  Apostles'  limbs,  cramped  from 
long  confinement,  must  have  moved  slowly  and  wearily 
over  the  Via  Sacra,  now,  for  the  first  time,  deserving  of 
its  name;  the  heat  at  that  time  of  year  is  overpowering, 
and  the  blaze  of  midday  beat  down  upon  their  heads. 
At  a  certain  point,  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from 
the  present  gate  of  St.  Paul,  the  cortege  halted  and  di- 
vided itself  into  two,  and  here  the  Fathers  of  all  Chris- 

45 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

tianity  bade  one  another  farewell  —  for  the  few  hours 
which  must  pass  before  they  should  be  reunited  "  in  the 
Lord."  The  little  chapel  which  marks  the  spot  bears 
this  inscription:* 

"  In  this  place  SS.  Peter  and  Paul  separated  on  their 
way  to  Martyrdom,  and  Paul  said  to  Peter,  '  Peace  be 
with  thee,  Foundation  of  the  Church,  Shepherd  of  the 
flock  of  Christ,'  and  Peter  said  to  Paul,  '  Go  in  peace, 
Preacher  of  good  tidings  and  Guide  of  the  salvation  of 
the  just.'  " 

The  soldiers  who  had  charge  of  St.  Paul  led  him 
away  to  the  westward,  to  a  spot  whither,  as  St.  Clement 
gives  us  to  understand,  the  Emperor  Nero  deigned  to 
come  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  his  sufferings.  St.  Peter's 
escort  had  been  commanded  to  bring  him  to  the  Vatican 
hill,  the  old  place  for  Christian  executions,  easy  for  the 
people  to  find,  because  of  a  very  ancient  terebinth  tree 
which  had  stood  there  for  hundreds  of  years  and  was 
a  popular  landmark.  The  murderers,  when  they  were 
authorised  ones,  as  in  this  case,  always  sought  to  give 
the  greatest  publicity  to  such  executions,  hoping  (very 
much  against  hope,  one  would  think)  that  the  victims' 
courage  would  give  way  and  fear  induce  apostasy  at  the 
last  moment;  or,  failing  that,  that  the  sight  of  their  tor- 
ments would  deter  others  from  embracing  Christianity. 

So  St.  Peter,  praying  and  rejoicing,  was  first  scourged 
after  the  cruel  Roman  manner,  and  then  both  bound 
and  nailed  to  his  cross,  head  downward  by  his  own  re- 
quest, since  he  said  he  was  not  worthy  to  die  like  his 
Lord.  The  blood  that  flowed  from  his  wounds  was  gath- 

*  Taken  from  the  epistle  of  St.  Denis  the  Areopagite  to  Timothy,  in 
•which  he  narrates  the  incident  and  records  the  Apostles'  words. 

46 


LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 

ered  on  linen  cloths  by  the  weeping  Christians,  who  stood 
around  him  for  the  long  hours  he  hung  there. 

iThe  ancient  antiphon  which  used  to  be  sung  on  the 
Feast,  thus  describes  the  martyrdom  of  St.  Peter: 

"  As  they  were  leading  Peter  the  Apostle  to  the  cross, 
he,  filled  with  a  great  joy,  said:  '  I  am  not  worthy  to  die 
on  the  cross  like  my  Lord,  who  was  conceived  by  the 
Holy  Ghost,  while  I  was  formed  of  the  clay  of  the  earth; 
therefore,  my  cross  must  show  my  head  to  the  ground.'  ' 

So  they  reversed  the  cross,  and  nailed  his  feet  at  the 
top  and  his  hands  at  the  base.  While  Peter  was  on  the 
cross  there  came  a  great  multitude,  cursing  Caesar,  and 
there  was  great  lamentation  before  the  cross. 

Peter,  from  the  cross,  exhorted  the  people,  saying: 
"  Weep  not,  but  rejoice  with  me,  because  I  go  to-day  to 
prepare  a  place  for  you."  And  having  thus  spoken  he 
said:  "  Good  Shepherd,  I  thank  Thee  that  the  sheep  Thou 
didst  confide  to  me  take  part  in  heart  with  my  sufferings; 
I  beseech  Thee  that  they  may  also  take  part  with  me  in 
Thy  grace  for  all  eternity." 

'Tis  said  that  he  repeated  over  and  over  in  his  heart 
that  humble  protestation,  "  Lord,  Thou  knowest  that  I 
love  Thee  1  "  And  when  at  last  his  praying  and  blessing 
ceased,  and  the  beloved  face  turned  grey  and  stiff,  they 
took  him  down,  washed  the  stains  away  from  those  fur- 
rows that  the  tears  of  repentance  for  his  denial  had  been 
scoring  in  his  cheeks  for  nigh  on  forty  years,  closed 
the  eyes  that  had  looked  on  the  Lord  and  had  been  such 
wells  of  sorrow  and  contrition,  and  buried  his  blessed 
body  close  by,  in  the  stricken  soil  that  the  Romans  had 
learnt  to  shun. 

And  "  by  the  power  of  this  other  cross,  raised  in  Rome, 

47 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Babylon  became  that  day  the  Holy  City,  while  Zion  must 
forever  rest  under  malediction  for  having  crucified  her 
Saviour.  Rome  may  reject  the  Man-God  as  she  will,  she 
may  shed  His  blood  in  that  of  His  martyrs,  but  no  crime 
of  hers  can  avail  against  the  tremendous  fact  accom- 
plished in  this  hour;  the  cross  of  Peter  has  transferred  to 
her  all  the  rights  in  the  Cross  of  Jesus, — it  is  she  who  is 
now  Jerusalem." 

.  .  .  "This  tribute  of  death,  Levi  knew  it  not;  this 
dower  of  blood,  Jehovah  demanded  it  not  of  Aaron;  men 
die  not  for  a  slave  —  and  the  Synagogue  was  not  the 
Spouse."  * 

The  Vatican  crypt  which  received  the  body  of  St.  Peter 
immediately  after  his  martyrdom,  was  excavated  under 
a  temple  of  Apollo,  the  deity  supposed  to  preside  over 
public  games,  near  the  old  circus  of  Nero.  By  the  year 
89  or  90  A.D.,  when  St.  Peter's  fourth  successor,  St. 
Anacletus,  became  Pontiff,  during  the  reign  of  the  Em- 
peror Domitian,  one  is  led  to  suppose  that  this  temple 
was  more  or  less  forsaken  as  a  place  of  pagan  worship, 
since  Anacletus  was  able  to  "  build,"  as  the  phrase  runs, 
a  tiny  oratory,  just  large  enough  for  two  or  three  persons 
to  kneel  in,  around  the  tomb  of  St.  Peter.  Here  again, 
apparent  accident  served  the  ultimate  designs  of  Provi- 
dence in  regard  to  this  fore-hallowed  site.  The  Chris- 
tians desired  greatly  to  deposit  the  Apostle's  remains  in 
the  deep  and  secret  excavations,  already  crowded  with 
the  bodies  of  martyrs,  near  the  fourth  milestone  on  the 
Appian  Way,  the  vaults  which  had  more  than  once  af- 
forded refuge  to  the  persecuted  brethren  and  to  the 
Apostle  himself.  But  with  the  persecution  that  was  rag- 
ing at  the  moment  of  his  death,  it  would  have  been 

*  Dom  Gueranger. 
48 


LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  APOSTLES 

impossible  to  transport  the  body  without  attracting 
notice,  so  the  nearest  spot  was  chosen,  regardless  of  the 
fact  that  it  was  in  the  close  neighbourhood  of  a  number 
of  pagan  tombs.  As  we  shall  see  later,  this  humble 
resting-place  was  threatened  with  desecration  in  its  turn, 
and  was  emptied  of  its  treasure  for  many  years  in  favour 
of  the  more  distant  cemetery. 

The  martyrdom  of  St.  Peter  attracted  little  notice  ex- 
cept from  the  poor  Christians  who  gathered  round  his 
hard  deathbed,  to  weep  and  pray  and  receive  his  last 
blessing;  that  of  St.  Paul,  the  Roman  citizen,  was  a  much 
more  public  and  popular  affair.  The  intrepid  band  of 
disciples  who  followed  him  to  the  chosen  spot  on  the 
Ostian  Way,  not  far  from  the  other  (but  divided  by  the 
slopes  of  the  Janiculum),  risked  death  more  certainly  in 
doing  so,  and  some  of  them  doubtless  paid  its  penalty. 

Before  reaching  the  place  of  execution,  St.  Paul  saw, 
weeping  bitterly  by  the  roadside,  the  holy  matron  Plau- 
tilla,  one  of  his  converts,  who  had  hastened  thither  to  bid 
him  farewell  and  ask  for  his  last  blessing.  As  our  Lord, 
on  the  way  to  Calvary,  paused  to  speak  to  the  daughters 
of  Jerusalem,  so  St.  Paul  stayed  his  steps  to  console  this 
faithful  woman.  He  asked  her  to  give  him  her  veil,  that 
he  might  cover  his  eyes  with  it  when  he  was  beheaded, 
and  he  promised  that  he  would  return  it  to  her  after  his 
death.  Plautilla,  feeling  scarcely  worthy  of  such  an  hon- 
our, yet  rejoiced  to  be  able  to  serve  him,  eagerly  placed 
her  veil  in  his  hands,  while  his  jailers  mocked  at  the 
Apostle's  promise.  But  her  faith  and  love  were  re- 
warded, and  she  beheld  the  beloved  Pastor  again  with 
her  bodily  eyes,  when,  after  his  martyrdom,  he  appeared 
to  her  and  restored  the  veil,  all  stained  with  his  blood. 

At  the  spot  called  then  "  ad  Acquas  Salvias,"  St.  Paul 

49 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

was  tied  to  a  pillar,  and  the  executioner's  sword  severed 
his  head  from  his  body.  The  head,  in  falling,  bounded 
away,  touching  the  ground  three  times  in  all,  and,  at  each 
point  where  it  touched,  a  spring  of  clear  water  instantly 
burst  forth  and  is  still  flowing.  The  first  was  warm  as 
life-blood,  the  second  tepid,  and  the  third,  icy  cold.  A 
Frenchwoman  has  written  of  this  miracle  as  only  a 
Frenchwoman  could :  "  At  the  first  touch,  the  soul  has 
but  just  escaped  from  the  body  —  that  glorious  head  is 
yet  full  of  life!  At  the  second,  the  shadow  of  death  is 
already  cast  over  those  wonderful  features;  at  the  third, 
the  eternal  sleep  has  overtaken  them,  and,  though  still 
radiant  in  beauty,  they  announce  that  the  lips  will  never 
open  again  in  this  world,  and  that  the  eagle  glance  is 
veiled  forever." 

The  show  is  over,  the  Emperor  is  borne  away  by  his 
slaves  and  sycophants,  sulky,  perhaps,  at  not  having  seen 
more  blood  or  greater  wonders.  But  the  destruction  of 
Simon  Magus  and  the  alienation  of  his  favourites  is 
avenged.  That  is  something  to  take  back  with  him  to 
the  night's  debauch  on  the  Palatine.  The  vulgar  crowd 
has  followed  him,  and  as  the  quick  Italian  night  comes 
down,  and  the  mists  roll  along  the  river,  while  the  even- 
ing star  hangs  white  in  the  low  crimson  of  the  West,  the 
mourners  gather  up  the  sacred  body  and  the  haloed  head, 
and  hasten,  as  in  St.  Peter's  case,  to  bury  the  martyr  close 
by,  in  a  bit  of  land  owned  by  the  noble  matron  Lucina, 
who,  years  later,  builj:  on  it  a  splendid  tomb  for  his 
earthly  resting-place. 


CHAPTER    IV 

ROMAN  YESTERDAYS 

The  Gods  of  the  Roman  World — Leaven  of  Christianity — Measures  of 
the  Emperors  Against  the  Christians — Nine  General  Persecutions — 
Mad  Extremes  of  Heliogabalus — Rescue  of  the  Bodies  of  the  Apostles 
— Tragic  History  of  the  Appian  Way — The  Joys  of  Solitude — How 
Marion  Crawford  Became  the  Master  of  San  Niccola — A  Solitude  of 
Relaxation  and  Quiet — A  Secluded  Garden  on  the  River  in  Rome — The 
Contrasts  of  Life  and  the  Happiness  in  Hoping — An  Artist's  Fes- 
tival— How  a  Roman  Emperor  Looked. 

FEW  things  in  the  records  of  the  past  are  stranger 
than  the  variations  of  attitude  of  the  Roman  Em- 
perors (barring  some  hsematomaniacs  like  Nero)  to- 
wards Christianity  during  the  first  three  or  four  centuries 
of  our  era,  quite  apart  from  the  moral  attributes  of  the 
Emperors  themselves.  One  feels,  through  the  edicts,  the 
bored  irritation  of  the  rulers  at  having  to  trouble  them- 
selves at  all  about  a  few  low-born  individuals  led  away, 
as  was  believed,  by  a  crazy  illusion  about  another  world, 
a  life  after  this  one,  which  they  promised  to  all  who 
would  renounce  the  real  pleasures  —  those  considered  as 
such  by  the  great  ones  of  the  day  and  their  followers  — 
pride  and  power,  riches,  ambition,  the  lust  of  the  eyes, 
and  the  lust  of  the  flesh.  "  Surely,"  one  seems  to  hear 
authority  exclaim,  "  human  nature  may  be  trusted  to  fight 
for  its  own,  against  such  fanatics!  We  have  had  our 
Stoics  and  their  disciples,  and  no  one  had  to  legislate 
against  them.  All  they  claimed  was  the  right  to  despise 
ease  and  pleasure,  and  to  find  their  reward  in  the  admi- 
ration or  notoriety  that  they  gained  in  the  process.  Their 

51 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

very  uncomfortable  doctrines  were  never  the  cause  of 
great  social  upheavals!  What  is  behind  this  new  teach- 
ing that  men  should  be  so  excited  about  it?  " 

Then  little  by  little  there  creeps  in  the  sign  of  an  un- 
explained fear,  the  sense  of  being  confronted  by  a  new 
mysterious  power,  great  enough  to  be  menacing  to  the 
old  order  of  things,  which,  after  all,  had  served  well 
and  should  not  be  interfered  with  unnecessarily.  Few  of 
the  upper  classes,  except  in  times  of  great  trouble,  really 
relied  much  on  the  protection  of  Rome's  inherited  gods, 
but  all  felt  that  their  worship  was  a  powerful  weapon 
wherewith  to  control  or  drive  the  great  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple. The  common  herd  clung  tenaciously  to  the  belief 
that  prosperity  followed  on  faithfulness  to  the  old  dei- 
ties, and  misfortune  on  any  affront  offered  them.  These 
tiresome  Christians  went  out  of  their  way  to  show  their 
scorn  of  the  very  mixed  crowd  of  gods  and  goddesses 
whom  Rome  had  enshrined  on  her  altars,  and  it  was  im- 
prudent to  seem  to  pass  over  such  offences  against  the 
public  taste.  One  ruler  tries  to  suppress  the  Christians 
with  a  high  hand;  another  suggests  a  compromise  —  he 
is  willing  to  place  the  statue  of  Christ  in  the  Capitol  if 
they  will  show  equal  respect  for  the  earlier  residents 
there.  No?  Oh,  well,  let  them  be  exterminated,  then, 
since  they  are  so  bent  on  destruction!  The  edicts  are 
issued  and  fiercely  followed  up,  till  even  the  persecutors 
weary  of  the  diversion  and  stop  as  if  for  want  of  breath. 
But  the  edicts  are  not  repealed,  and  they  lie  there  at  the 
disposal  of  bloody-minded  governors  or  covetous  inform- 
ers, who  desire  to  annex  some  Christian's  estates  or  to 
possess  themselves  of  beautiful  Christian  maids.  Nine 
official  general  persecutions  we  count  in  all,  spread  over 
some  three  hundred  years,  but  it  must  not  be  thought 

52 


ROMAN  YESTERDAYS 

that  the  Church  had  peace,  except  occasionally  for  very 
short  intervals,  between.  The  reigning  Emperor  might 
be  a  monster  like  Nero  or  Domitian,  or  a  gentle-minded 
tolerant  man  like  Alexander  Severus,  the  streams  of  blood 
were  made  to  flow  with  awful  continuity  just  the  same, 
owing  to  the  enormous  power  placed  in  the  hands  of  his 
deputies,  the  governors  of  the  citi-es  and  provinces  that 
made  up  the  unwieldy  Empire. 

These  fluctuations  account  for  the  many  transporta- 
tions of  the  relics  of  the  chief  martyrs  to  different  hiding- 
places  during  those  early  centuries.  For  some  hundred 
and  fifty  years  the  bodies  of  the  Apostles,  St.  Peter  and 
St.  Paul,  reposed  in  the  tombs  where  they  had  been  first 
placed,  and  where  they  now  lie,  but  soon  after  the  ac- 
cession of  Heliogabalus  to  the  throne,  the  reigning  Pope, 
St.  Calixtus,  found  it  necessary  to  remove  them  to  a 
distant  and  secret  spot  in  order  to  protect  them  from 
the  most  revolting  sacrilege.  Heliogabalus,  the  maddest 
of  all  the  mad  Emperors,  suddenly  decreed  that  no  god 
but  himself  should  be  worshipped  in  Rome.  He  built  a 
gorgeous  temple  to  himself  on  the  Palatine,  and  as  the 
pagan  historian,  Lampridius,  tells  us,  made  arrangements 
to  transfer  to  this  temple  not  only  all  the  objects  of  wor- 
ship most  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  the  Romans,  and  regarded 
by  them  as  talismans  upon  the  safeguarding  of  which 
the  destinies  of  the  Empire  depended  —  the  fire  of  Vesta, 
the  statue  of  Cybele,  the  Palladium,  the  Ancilia  —  but 
also  "  the  religions  of  the  Jews  and  Samaritans,  and  the 
Christian  objects  of  devotion,  in  order  that  the  priests  of 
Heliogabalus  should  hold  the  secrets  of  every  worship." 

It  was  well  known  that  the  objects  most  dear  to  Chris- 
tian devotion  were  the  bodies  of  the  glorious  Apostles, 
and  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  continuous  pilgrimage  to 

53 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

their  tombs  had  marked  the  way  fairly  clearly  to  those 
once  secluded  spots.  St.  Calixtus,  it  seems,  was  already 
preparing  to  remove  the  bodies  when  a  new  whim  of 
the  maniac  Emperor  caused  him  to  do  so  with  extreme 
haste.  Heliogabalus  issued  orders  for  a  great  exhibition 
of  harnessed  elephants  on  the  Vatican  plain,  and,  to  pro- 
cure sufficient  space  for  the  show,  commanded  that  all 
inequalities  should  be  levelled  and  all  the  sepulchres, 
pagan  or  Christian,  should  be  destroyed. 

In  fear  and  haste,  St.  Calixtus  transported  the  holy 
remains  to  the  Appian  Way,  already  by  that  time  honey- 
combed with  subterranean  vaults  and  passages.  Above 
ground,  the  place  was  marked  by  the  monuments  of  the 
Cascilii,  whose  illustrious  daughter  was  soon  to  lie  below; 
but  St.  Calixtus  feared  that  the  existing  vaults,  now  for 
the  first  time  called  "  Catacombs,"  were  already  too 
widely  known  to  offer  complete  protection  to  the  precious 
relics;  so  he  caused  a  new  chamber  to  be  dug  deep  in 
the  rock,  to  the  right  of  the  way,  disposing  the  only 
entrance  to  it  through  a  well;  and  there  he  laid  the 
Apostles,  each  in  a  separate  tomb,  to  abide  the  hour  of 
the  triumph  of  the  Church. 

The  Appian  Way,  with  its  miles  of  magnificent  pagan 
monuments  on  the  surface,  and  its  far-reaching  secret 
sanctuaries  below,  has  in  the  course  of  time  taken  on 
something  like  a  personality  of  its  own.  It  is  like  a 
ribbon  of  marble  laid  across  a  sea  of  beauty  even  now, 
when  the  famous  villas  and  gardens,  overflowing  with 
blooms  gathered  from  every  clime  and  shaded  by  groves 
of  ilex  and  cedar,  of  palm  and  sycamore  and  cypress, 
have  all  been  swept  into  the  rich,  soft  mould;  there  you 
can  look  across  twenty  miles  of  waving  grasses  and  wild 
flowers,  broken  only  by  some  fragment  still  majestic  in 

54 


ROMAN  YESTERDAYS 

ruin  and  guarded  by  the  dark,  slender  watch-towers  — 
memories  of  a  later  age,  when  the  few  scared  shepherds 
had  to  fly  from  Hun  or  Saracen  —  that  rise  at  intervals 
all  the  way  to  the  sea.  The  solitude  seems  boundless,  yet 
gentle  and  familiar;  little  blind  winds  come  wandering 
across  from  the  south  and  lose  their  way  among  the 
flowers;  for  the  Via  Appia  leads  due  south,  and  one 
knows  that  it  goes  on  into  the  war-ploughed  Kingdom 
of  Naples,  that  "  hothouse  of  Saints  and  Sinners,"  with 
its  fierce  suns  burning  down  on  castles  whose  very  stones 
cry  tragedy,  on  scorching  hillsides  where  the  black  grapes 
ripen  into  fiery  wine,  on  flats  seething  in  the  heat  under 
the  man-high  crops  of  maize.  But  near  Rome,  looking 
towards  the  soft  green  outline  of  the  Alban  Hills,  all 
that  seems  illusion;  this  is  reality,  this  empty  space,  un- 
troubled by  past  or  future,  this  sweep  of  dun  gold  and 
fading  purple;  its  surrounding  hills  that  all  look  towards 
Rome  have  seen  the  place  unpeopled,  seen  it  swarming 
with  life;  have  seen  it  flaring  with  pomp  and  then  sub- 
merged in  blood;  now  they  are  guardians  of  that  which 
modern  cataclysms  have  failed  to  rend  —  the  peace  of  a 
place  whence  even  the  memory  of  humanity  is  banished 
and  Nature  smiles  and  broods  alone  over  her  lovely 
handiwork. 

Often  I  have  longed  to  withdraw  for  a  time  to  one 
of  those  lonely  watch-towers  to  "  think  things  out."  We 
Crawfords  have  never  been  able  to  see  a  really  solitary 
spot  without  wanting  it  for  our  own.  A  certain  empty 
tomb  lost  among  the  Umbrian  hills,  with  the  sun  turning 
the  red  rock  to  gold  and  the  wild  camomile  swaying  its 
yellow  blossoms  in  the  breeze  over  the  doorway,  has  been 
a  haven  of  my  spirit  through  many  a  breathless,  over- 
peopled hour.  I  could  fly  there  in  mind,  for  days  at  a 

55 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

time,  into  an  atmosphere  of  such  still  liberty  as  is  only 
granted  to  disembodied  souls.  My  dear  brother  Marion 
could  never  resist  the  call  of  fortressed  solitudes.  The 
story  of  how  he  became  the  master  of  San  Niccola  in 
Calabria  is  too  characteristic  not  to  be  told  in  this  con- 
nection. San  Niccola  is  an  Angevin  castle,  with  walls 
twenty  feet  thick  in  places,  perched  on  the  rocks  over  an 
inhospitable  little  bay  on  the  coast  of  Calabria,  a  bay 
too  small  and  shallow  to  permit  of  sailing  vessels  being 
anchored  inside  its  natural  breakwater  of  tumbled  stones. 
Marion  often  sailed  thither,  and,  leaving  the  yacht  out- 
side, would  scramble  on  shore  and  linger  for  hours  in 
the  shade  of  the  huge  pile,  weaving  new  stories  and  call- 
ing up  pictures  of  the  days  when  the  cry  would  ring  along 
the  coast  that  a  Saracen  sail  was  in  sight,  and  the  in- 
habitants, snatching  up  whatever  they  could  carry,  raced 
for  the  nearest  tower  of  refuge.  San  Niccola  looks  like 
a  huge  dark  monolith,  wide  at  the  base  and  tapering 
slightly  towards  its  truncated  summit.  It  contained  but 
two  apartments,  a  vast  square  space,  without  windows, 
for  animals  below,  and  one  great  hall,  as  sparsely  win- 
dowed as  possible,  above.  In  this  it  resembles  most  of 
its  fellows  along  the  coast,  where  "  Carlo  d'Angio,"  still 
almost  a  living  personality  to  the  people,  planted  them, 
at  short  distances  from  one  another,  for  this  very 
purpose. 

It  was  a  roasting  hot  day  in  August;  the  felucca  (this 
was  before  my  brother  bought  the  Alda)  was  swinging  at 
anchor  in  deep  water,  and  the  "  padroni,"  Marion  and 
my  sister-in-law,  were  sitting  on  the  rocks  in  the  shade, 
after  lunch  —  the  hour  when  most  people  go  to  sleep,  but 
always  a  particularly  inspiring  one  to  him  and  responsible 
for  many  of  his  quaint  whims.  Suddenly  he  jumped  up 

56 


ROMAN  YESTERDAYS 

and  announced  that  he  needed  a  walk  —  he  would  go 
to  the  town  —  a  tiny  hamlet  some  miles  distant  —  and 
buy  —  I  forget  what  —  fresh  eggs  for  the  morrow's 
breakfast,  I  think.  Would  Bessie  like  to  come? 

Bessie,  dozing  over  a  novel  under  the  shelter  of  a  huge 
pink  parasol,  scarcely  thought  it  necessary  to  reply  audi- 
bly to  such  a  crazy  proposition,  but  as  Marion  turned 
and  walked  away  she  signalled  to  the  faithful  Luigi  to 
follow  and  look  after  him,  which  Luigi  —  with  what 
groans  one  can  imagine,  just  after  the  midday  macaroni 
and  in  that  blazing  heat  —  obediently  did. 

The  day  wore  on,  the  sun  began  to  sink,  and  the  even- 
ing breeze  ruffled  the  water.  The  parasol  had  long  been 
closed,  the  novel  thrown  aside,  and  Bessie  was  beginning 
to  look  anxiously  landward,  when  the  truants  reappeared 
in  the  distance.  As  they  drew  nearer  she  could  see  that 
Marion  carried  in  his  hand  a  huge  iron  key,  while  Luigi, 
directly  behind  him,  was  flinging  his  arms  up  in  the  air 
in  gestures  of  despair.  As  they  came  close,  the  gestures 
became  those  of  beseeching  deprecation,  and  she  realised 
that  he  was  trying  to  say,  unbeknown  to  the  "  padrone," 
"  It  was  not  my  fault,  Signora  mia,  oh  indeed,  not  my 
fault !  "  while  Marion,  a  little  in  doubt  as  to  his  recep- 
tion, stopped  before  her  and  held  up  the  great  rusty  key, 
saying,  "  It's  mine,  mine,  my  dear,  for  the  next  thirty 
years!  " 

"What  —  this  awful  place?  Oh,  why  did  I  let  you 
go  away  without  me?"  she  wailed.  'What  on  earth 
are  you  going  to  do  with  it?  —  and  what  have  you  paid 
for  it?" 

He  mentioned  the  sum  —  not  a  very  large  one,  it  is 
true  —  but  Luigi,  hovering  near,  pale  and  scared,  whis- 
pered, with  every  appearance  of  sincere  grief:  "  He  could 

57 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

have  had  it  for  the  hundredth  part  of  that,  Signora! 
Alas,  for  the  good  money!  But  it  was  not  my  fault  — 
there  was  no  holding  the  Signore,  and  those  assassins  at 
the  Municipio  took  advantage  of  him!  " 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  not  the  money  side  of  the 
matter  which  distressed  my  sister-in-law  so  much  as  the 
prospect  of  being  required  to  come  and  pass  weeks  at 
a  time  in  this  grim  dungeon,  without  a  single  convenience 
of  life,  twelve  miles  from  a  market  town,  and  of  course 
lashed  to  the  battlements  by  every  Mediterranean  storm. 
It  took  her  some  days  to  reconcile  herself  to  the  new  ac- 
quisition —  poor  girl  —  but  Marion  had  not  made  a  mis- 
take, after  all.  The  family  was  not  invited  to  San 
Niccola  till  he  had  made  several  journeys  thither  him- 
self, with  carpenters  and  materials,  and  when  they  did 
come  they  found  that  the  lonely  keep  had  been  trans- 
formed internally  to  a  quite  possible  dwelling  —  though 
certainly  an  inconveniently  isolated  one.  Generally,  how- 
ever, he  went  there  alone,  to  rest  from  everything  con- 
nected with  modern  life,  and  he  found  it  a  fine,  quiet  place 
for  writing  in,  at  any  rate. 

I  fancy  that  people  who  take  such  keen  delight  as  we 
do  in  sympathetic  and  cheery  society  are  probably  the 
ones  who  most  enjoy  —  and  need  —  the  relaxation  of 
seclusion  and  quiet.  I  remember  a  curious  nook  that  my 
sister  and  I  discovered  in  Rome  itself;  we  never  told 
any  one  about  it,  and  used  to  go  there  day  after  day 
to  think  the  "  long,  long  thoughts  "  of  youth  and  make 
wonderful  plans  for  the  two  or  three  hundred  years  we 
must  have  expected  to  live  if  they  were  all  to  be  car- 
ried out! 

From  the  Via  di  Repetta,  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
Tiber,  we  had  noticed  on  the  opposite  side  two  or  three 


ROMAN  YESTERDAYS 

very  old  little  houses,  with  tiny  gardens  formed  on  the 
projecting  bastions  of  a  fragment  of  ancient  wall  which 
must  have  been  built  to  protect  the  Via  Lungara  from 
the  periodical  overflowing  of  the  river.  Over  the  low 
parapet  of  one  of  them  we  could  see  a  few  flowers,  a 
lemon  tree,  and  an  oleander  bush  in  bloom;  the  owners 
of  the  old  dwelling  were  never  visible,  but  we  made  up 
our  minds  to  bribe  them  to  let  us  into  their  deserted 
and  alluring  back  yard.  Once  in  the  Lungara  we  had 
some  little  trouble  in  locating  the  house,  as  nothing  of 
the  river  was  visible  between  the  closely-set  buildings  that 
faced  the  street,  but  after  one  or  two  wrong  shots  we 
found  it  —  in  the  possession  of  a  good-natured  young 
woman  who  could  not  in  the  least  understand  why  we 
should  offer  her  a  lira  for  the  privilege  of  passing  through 
to  her  "  loggia,"  a  place  she  evidently  despised  since,  to 
our  joy,  we  found  that  she  never  even  hung  out  the 
clothes  to  dry  there,  preferring  the  lines  which  run  from 
window  to  window  on  the  upper  stories  of  most  of  the 
poor  houses  in  Rome.  She  led  us  across  the  brick-floored 
kitchen,  opened  a  door  and  shut  it  behind  us  as  soon  as 
we  had  passed  through,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  a  tiny 
paradise  of  flowers  and  herbs  interspersed  with  frag- 
ments of  sculptured  marble  —  a  frond  of  acanthus,  a 
whorl  of  tracery  —  and  provided  with  a  stone  seat  inside 
the  parapet.  The  whole  jutted  far  out  into  the  river, 
whose  rushing  water  filled  the  air  with  drowsy  sound.  A 
few  jonquils  were  blooming  white  and  yellow  in  the  clear 
shade;  the  pot  of  carnations  —  every  Italian  woman  of 
the  lower  class  has  one,  which  she  cherishes  jealously  — 
was  spilling  over  with  huge  red  "  garofoli,"  scenting  the 
air  with  their  spicy  fragrance,  and  from  the  seat  by  the 
wall  we  could  look  up  and  down  the  river  for  a  long, 

59 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

long  way.  The  coolness,  the  unassailable  privacy  yet 
open-air  sweetness  of  it  all  was  indescribably  delightful; 
for  years  we  used  to  fly  there  when  we  had  something 
to  think  out;  and  when  the  new  works  for  keeping  the 
Tiber  within  bounds  swept  the  little  old  houses  and  their 
wee  gardens  away  we  felt  as  if  we  had  been  robbed  of 
a  bit  of  home. 

My  dear  sister  Annie  was  usually  the  pioneer  of  our 
discoveries  and  expeditions;  she  was  of  a  bolder  spirit 
than  I,  and  was  ever  on  the  alert  for  material  for  her 
painting,  which  was  not  always  done  with  the  brush. 
She  shared  in  particular  my  love  of  things  Etruscan.  We 
used  to  fancy  that  we  had  both  lived  among  the  myste- 
rious, beauty-loving  people  of  Etruria  some  three  thou- 
sand years  earlier.  Everything  connected  with  them  had 
a  haunting  power  over  us,  and  sometimes  we  used  to  put 
words  to  the  scenes  on  the  vases  and  act  them  out  with 
much  fidelity  for  our  own  satisfaction.  Only  one  friend 
was  admitted  to  share  these  archaic  sympathies  and  diver- 
sions; if  these  lines  ever  fall  under  "  Minnie's  "  eyes, 
will  she  remember  one  notable  night  when  she  and  Annie 
acted  the  parts  of  the  devoted  maidens,  in  clinging 
drapery  and  fillet-bound  hair,  who  rescued  the  beautiful 
young  warrior  —  myself  —  from  the  hideous  fate  de- 
creed for  him  by  the  (necessarily)  invisible  hierophants 
of  the  sacred  fane  in  the  wardrobe  —  the  dressing  table 
serving  for  the  altar  upon  which  he  was  to  have  been 
sacrificed?  We  were  all  three  so  overcome  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  drama  that  we  broke  down  and  wept  in 
each  other's  arms !  "  Le  gioventu  e  un  fiore  che  non 
ritorna  piu !  " 

But  those  whose  youth  has  been  fed  with  colour  and 
imagination  and  beauty  keep  young  in  spite  of  the  pass- 

60 


ROMAN  YESTERDAYS 

ing  of  years.  In  looking  back,  those  stand  out  as  the 
real  things  —  the  prosaic  grind  of  existence  falls  away 
and  shows  itself  as  mere  illusion.  After  all,  what  would 
life  be  without  contrasts?  They  are  the  chief  elements 
of  drama.  They  furnish  all  its  spice.  The  blackest  shad- 
ows prove  the  existence  of  the  brightest  sun.  It  is  the 
people  who  have  nothing  to  wish  for  who  are  to  be 
pitied.  The  very  poorest  can  dream  and  hope  for  some 
lightening  of  their  lot;  and  when  pleasures  come  to  them 
—  little  tiny  pleasures  even  —  they  enjoy  them  intensely; 
whereas  those  to  whom  nothing  has  been  denied  find  life 
so  atrociously  dull  that  only  a  constant  series  of  ficti- 
tious excitements  enables  them  to  bear  it  at  all.  Two  men 
I  know  were  walking  down  Fifth  Avenue  one  day  and 
paused  to  admire  a  magnificent  diamond  necklace  dis- 
played in  a  jeweller's  window.  One  of  them  said,  with 
a  sigh,  "  What  wouldn't  I  give  to  be  able  to  buy  that  for 
my  wife !  "  The  other,  a  poor  multi-millionaire,  turned 
to  him  with  a  snarl  of  envious  rage:  "  You  lucky  fellow! 
You  have  something  still  left  to  wish  for!  " 

The  best — in  the  way  of  mere  pleasure  —  that  some 
of  us  could  desire  would  be  to  live  some  hours  over  again 
and  see  once  more  the  pictures  that  filled  them.  There 
used  to  be  a  day  in  May  when  all  the  artists  in  Rome 
united  to  hold  high  festival  out  in  the  country,  and  — 
speaking  of  pictures  —  one  such  day  comes  back  to  me 
and  claims  its  record.  Nobody  was  allowed  to  know  be- 
forehand what  the  brotherhood  was  planning  to  do,  but 
it  was  sure  to  be  something  very  picturesque  —  and  no 
wonder,  considering  the  elements  and  facilities  brought 
to  bear  on  it! 

All  who  could  do  so  went  out  towards  the  appointed 
spot,  the  caves  of  Cervara,  that  morning,  and  we  passed 

61 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

so  many  vehicles  on  the  road  that  we  decided  to  turn  off 
and  make  for  our  point  across  the  turf,  all  unenclosed  in 
that  part  of  the  plain.  We  almost  forgot  what  we  had 
come  to  look  for,  in  the  pleasure  of  moving  soundlessly 
over  the  short,  new  grass  which  gave  out  a  warm  fra- 
grance of  mint  and  thyme  as  it  was  pressed  by  the 
horses'  feet.  The  velvety  undulations  between  which  we 
threaded  our  way,  shut  out  everything  but  the  blue  over- 
head and  some  glimpses  of  the  Sabines,  swimming  like 
huge  sapphires  in  a  haze  of  airy  gold.  Suddenly,  on  the 
sky-line  of  a  low  ridge  just  ahead  of  us,  a  towering  car 
moved  into  view,  drawn  by  four  white  oxen,  whose  gilded 
horns  were  hung  with  wreaths  of  roses.  The  heavy 
wheels  were  smothered  in  roses  too,  scattering  pink  and 
white  petals  as  they  revolved  over  the  newly-sprung 
grass.  The  sides  of  the  car  were  all  of  fretted  gold, 
catching  the  sun  in  a  hundred  lovely  scrolls  and  ara- 
besques ;  raised  high  on  a  gold  and  ivory  throne  sate  —  a 
Roman  Emperor,  his  white  robes  covered  with  jewels, 
the  laurel  wreath  on  his  brow,  his  smooth  young  beauty 
facing  the  radiant  morning  with  bland  immobile  inso- 
lence, his  dark  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon,  as  if  seeing 
his  empire  stretching  away  till  its  confines  were  lost  in 
the  unknown  East.  Behind  him  two  black  slaves  held 
huge  fans  of  white  feathers  over  his  head  to  protect 
him  from  the  heat;  at  his  feet,  on  a  swirl  of  panther 
skins,  sate  his  favourite  of  the  moment,  a  beautiful, 
lithe  Greek  woman,  her  golden  hair  crowned  with  roses, 
her  bare  arms  covered  with  bracelets  and  gleaming  like 
'marble  in  the  sun,  while  a  score  or  more  of  lovely  girls 
in  classical  draperies  leaned  over  the  gilt  balustrades  that 
sank,  tier  below  tier,  from  the  sides  of  the  throne  down 
to  the  upper  ledge  of  the  rose-wreathed  wheels.  Black 

62 


ROMAN  YESTERDAYS 

slaves  in  scarlet  tunics  led  the  oxen,  urging  them  on  with 
pointed  gilt  wands,  and  behind  the  Emperor's  car,  as  far 
as  one  could  see,  followed  a  long  procession  of  others, 
nearly  as  splendid  as  the  first,  crowded  with  all  his  at- 
tendants, gorgeous  in  raiment,  grouped  to  perfection  — 
and  all,  saving  the  ox-drivers,  motionless  as  statues.  It 
was  a  dream  of  Imperial  times,  too  surprising  to  be  real, 
till,  as  the  first  car  passed  close  to  us,  one  of  the  girls 
began  to  laugh  and  flung  a  handful  of  rose-petals  in  my 
face. 

How  those  young  artists  had  enjoyed  themselves  in 
planning  and  producing  the  marvellous  show!  Painting 
pictures  on  canvas  is  all  very  well,  but  fancy  the  delight 
of  making  them  live,  on  such  a  background,  before  peo- 
ple's eyes  —  of  handling  all  that  superb  material  to  em- 
body visions  that  had  haunted  one  despairingly  for  years, 
crying  out  to  be  used  and  shown!  Upon  my  word,  if  I 
could  start  life  over  again  and  choose  my  own  vocation, 
I  believe  I  would  make  it  that  of  a  theatrical  manager  — 
an  artist  in  flesh  and  blood  1 


A  FEUDAL  VILLA 

Ancient  Beauty  of  Villa  Borghese — A  Sylvan  Siesta — The  Woodland 
of  the  Borghese — The  Heart  of  the  Trees — The  Borghese  Anemone — 
Vintage  Time  in  the  Grape  Countries — Tuscany,  an  Atmosphere  of 
Purity  and  Calm — Bunches  of  Grapes  Two  Feet  Long — Muscatels  of 
Etruria — October  Festivals  at  the  Villa  Borghese — Peasants  of  the 
Coast  Towns — Picturesque  Costume  of  the  Albanese — Feast  in  the 
Private  Garden — Fountains  of  Wine — Classic  Chariot  Races — The 
Passing  of  the  Feudal  System. 

THE  recollection  of  the  artists'  festival  brings  to  my 
mind  some  festivals  of  other  times,  remembered 
by  very  few  persons  now  alive.  Next  to  those  connected 
with  the  great  religious  anniversaries,  the  ones  most  ap- 
preciated by  the  Romans  were,  I  think,  the  lavish  enter- 
tainments given  by  Prince  Borghese  in  his*  villa  to 
celebrate  the  vintage,  in  October.  The  Villa  Borghese, 
as  every  one  knows,  is  a  great  pleasure  park  just  outside 
the  Porta  del  Popolo,  but  those  who  see  it  as  it  is  now, 
exploited  for  the  most  vulgar  commercial  ends,  and  at 
the  same  time  sadly  neglected,  can  scarcely  form  an  idea 
of  its  original  plan  and  ancient  beauty.  Even  in  earlier 
days  the  fashionable  crowd  that  drove  there  in  the  af- 
ternoon knew  nothing  of  the  remote  dells  and  glades  that 
lay  lost  in  the  great  masses  of  woodland,  of  the  meadows 
that  spread  beyond  the  woods,  of  statues  and  fountains 
shrined  in  the  green  and  sequestered  places  that  one 
might  pass  near  a  hundred  times  without  becoming  aware 
of  their  existence.  It  was  one  of  the  playgrounds  of  my 
babyhood,  but  even  after  I  was  grown  up  I  sometimes 
made  new  discoveries  there. 

64 


A  FEUDAL  VILLA 

In  the  very  dawn  of  my  recollections  there  is  the  mem- 
ory of  one  of  childhood's  long,  long  springs  —  when  the 
days  are  all  blue  and  silver  overhead,  and  golden  haze 
in  the  distance,  and  live  emerald  underfoot  —  when  my 
old  Maria  used  to  convey  me  in  the  morning  all  the  way 
from  Villa  Negroni  on  the  Esquiline  to  Villa  Borghese  at 
Porta  del  Popolo,  there  to  play  in  the  grass  till  the  sun 
began  to  sink  towards  St.  Peter's.  I  was  three  years  old, 
and  there  was  as  yet  no  all-important  baby  brother  to 
whose  existence  my  own  was  to  be  subordinated  a  year 
later.  Nobody  had  yet  started  to  train  and  discipline 
me,  and  each  sun  that  rose  shone  through  just  so  many 
hours  of  Paradise.  To  Maria  I  was  sun  and  moon,  and 
if  I  was  happy  she  was  happy,  but  there  was  one  occupa- 
tion that  kept  her  busy  hour  after  hour  in  the  distant 
villa,  while  I  rolled  on  the  grass  —  the  picking  of  wild 
chicory  for  her  supper  salad.  I  can  see  her  now,  bent 
double,  her  good-natured  dark  face  quite  flushed  with 
excitement  as  she  pounced  on  the  tender  shoots  that 
cropped  up  everywhere  through  the  turf,  till  the  red  hand- 
kerchief in  which  she  tied  them  up  would  hold  no  more, 
and  she  would  slip  it  over  her  wrist,  pick  me  up  in  her 
arms,  and  climb  the  tiers  of  the  amphitheatre  to  reach  our 
favourite  luncheon  room,  a  clear  bubbling  fountain  in 
the  avenue  of  ilex  trees  which  crowned  the  ridge  behind 
it.  Here,  close  to  the  fountain,  we  had  our  midday  meal, 
with  the  birds  singing  overhead  and  the  wind  dancing 
through  the  ilexes  so  that  the  ground  was  all  a  moving 
arabesque  of  sun  and  shade  —  the  sweet  fragrant  ground 
that  I  could  dig  my  fingers  into  to  bring  up  handfuls  of 
the  gem-like  ilex  acorns  that  I  loved  so  much.  When 
the  meal  was  over  and  my  little  silver  mug  had  dipped 
up  a  drink  for  me  from  the  fountain,  I  used  to  fall  asleep 

65 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

in  Maria's  arms  to  her  queer  lullabies  — "  Fringa, 
f  ringa !  "  or  "  lo  vorrei  che  alia  luna  ci  s'andasse  in 
carretella  per  vede  le  donne  di  lassu !  "  It  always  seemed 
to  me  that  I  woke  up  when  she  stopped  singing,  and  I 
could  not  understand  why  Maria,  with  her  head  against 
a  tree-trunk,  was  snoring  happily  and  had  to  be  waked 
up  herself.  But  our  sylvan  siesta  had  lasted  an  hour  or 
two;  the  sun  was  no  longer  overhead,  but  streaming  in 
floods  of  level  gold  through  all  the  lower  branches,  turn- 
ing the  turf  and  moss  into  live  velvet,  and  flushing  the 
statues'  pale  cheeks  to  a  semblance  of  life.  Then,  with 
many  a  halt  for  gathering  anemones  and  violets,  and 
some  running  away  on  my  part  to  hide  in  the  intricacies 
of  the  marble  grottoes  which  burrow  behind  the  rococo 
temple  fountain  at  the  first  parting  of  the  great  avenue, 
we  wandered  towards  the  entrance,  avoiding  the  avenue 
itself  and  threading  our  way  through  the  little  woods, 
till  we  came  out  by  "  Napoleon's  Tomb  " —  the  exact 
copy  of  the  original  one  at  St.  Helena,  weeping  willow 
and  all  —  till  the  great  iron  gates  came  in  sight,  and 
we  had  to  re-enter  the  city  again.  Sometimes  Maria 
was  instructed  to  bring  me  back  to  Nazzarri's,  in  the 
Piazza  di  Spagna,  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  for  a  solid 
meal;  and  then,  scorning  the  "filet"  which  dear  old 
Madame  Nazzarri  had  had  specially  cooked  for  me,  I 
used  to  persuade  Maria  to  "  trade  "  it  for  her  own  lunch, 
which  I  liked  much  better — "pane  sott'  olio,"  pieces  of 
coarse  casareccio  bread  sliced  up  in  oil  and  vinegar,  a 
favourite  dish  among  the  poorer  classes  to  this  day.  Of 
course  these  little  vagaries  were  most  reprehensible  and 
were  never  referred  to  at  home  —  Maria's  conscience 
concerning  itself  with  one  thing  only  —  my  three-year-old 
will  and  pleasure  I  I  believe  she  had  a  husband  and  son 

66 


A  FEUDAL  VILLA 

somewhere,  and  I  know  her  old  age  was  cosily  cared  for 
in  the  country,  whence  she  used  to  come  at  intervals  long 
after  I  was  grown  up,  with  a  basket  of  "  ciambelle  "  in 
one  hand  and  a  huge  bunch  of  pink  roses  in  the  other. 

I  started  to  speak  of  the  villa  and  not  of  myself,  but 
it  was  one  of  those  places  so  inextricably  entwined  with 
the  web  of  my  own  life  that  I  cannot  even  now  set  it 
apart  from  personal  associations  and  memories.  I  think 
it  must  have  been  there  that  I  first  made  friends  with 
trees  —  as  trees.  In  our  enchanted  garden  on  the  Es- 
quiline  we  had  cypresses  —  the  most  perfect  in  all  Italy 
—  orange  trees  and  ilexes,  and  one  or  two  flowering 
junipers,  but  no  shade  trees  or  bits  of  woodland  like 
those  in  the  Borghese,  where  the  ancient  oaks  and  chest- 
nuts and  beeches  meet  high  overhead  along  avenues  so 
extensive  that  to  make  the  round  twice  in  an  afternoon 
was  as  much  as  most  people  ever  did.  As  one  drove 
through  those  avenues  one  looked  down  on  the  unex- 
plored and  ever  varied  fields  and  woods  within  the  circle, 
and,  whether  in  winter  or  summer,  at  morning  or  at 
evening,  one  could  always  catch  some  new  and  lovely 
aspect  of  light  and  shade;  it  might  be  of  mossed  foliage, 
all  bronze  and  velvet,  thinning  off  into  a  copse  of  saplings 
unfurling  their  veil  of  feathery  green  in  some  breath  of 
wind  that  left  the  giants  calm  and  unruffled;  or  it  might 
be  a  screen  of  bare  tracery  rising  from  some  ridge,  in 
cool,  neutral  tints  into  the  chastened  blue  of  an  autumn 
sky;  or  again  the  fervid  umber  of  slender  trunks  and 
branches  cast  up  against  the  pale  lemon  and  chrysoprase 
of  a  winter  sunset;  the  blessed  trees  sounded  every  note, 
clothed  themselves  in  every  tint  that  human  love  and 
passion  know,  from  the  fresh  unconscious  caress  of  child- 
hood to  the  pomegranate  outburst  of  first  love  —  and 

67 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

on  to  the  gathered  changeless  riches  of  the  heart's  ma- 
turity —  beyond  which  there  lies  nothing  but  dissolution 
and  re-birth.  I  cannot  explain  these  things;  those  who 
know  them  as  I  do  admit  the  mystic  relationship  of  some 
.of  us  to  the  trees;  they  can  suffer,  as  I  do,  when  murder- 
ers slay  them  ruthlessly,  can  kneel  beside  the  fallen 
monarch  and  touch  his  pitiful  wounds,  and  murmur  all 
our  love  and  veneration  to  the  great  heart  that  never 
will  feel  the  sap  leap  and  surge  again.  One  poet -said  it 
for  us  all,  when  he  wept  in  the  woods  before  dawn  and 
cried: 

"  Great  man-bodied  tree, 
That  mine  arms  in  the  dark  are  embracing, 
What  magic  of  sympathy  lies 

Between  dear  over-beautiful  trees  and  the  rain  of  the 
eyes?  " 

It  was  in  the  Villa  Borghese,  driving  round  and  round 
during  the  balmy  afternoons  of  the  spring  before  I  was 
married,  that  my  mother  and  I  read  William  Morris's 
"  Jason  "  aloud  to  each  other,  and  never  did  a  perfect 
poem  have  a  more  perfect  setting.  Where  the  lie  of  the 
land  mounts  a  little  towards  the  Pincio  side  of  the 
Borghese,  four  avenues  converge  on  a  circle,  in  the  centre 
of  which  is  one  of  those  broad  lake  fountains  only  to  be 
seen  in  Rome,  marble-rimmed  and  guarded  by  a  group 
of  marble  sea-horses  rearing  and  pawing  round  the  tall 
shaft  of  water  that  bursts  up  from  their  midst.  The 
carriage  way  is  broad  around  the  fountain,  for  here 
all  the  vehicles  must  pass,  and  the  Roman  world  of  my 
day  prided  itself  on  its  shining  equipages  and  thorough- 
bred horses.  But  all  its  pomp  and  brilliancy  pales,  at 
a  certain  moment  of  the  spring,  before  the  pink  forest 

68 


A  FEUDAL  VILLA 

of  juniper  trees  that  thrust  their  thick-set  branches  out, 
from  the  darker  foliage  behind,  to  smother  the  marble 
seats  below  them  in  one  enormous  wreath  of  rose- 
coloured  bloom,  a  carnival  of  loveliness  only  to  be 
matched  by  the  cherry  blossoms  in  Japan.  Here  we  used 
to  leave  the  carriage  and  make  our  way  into  the  vast 
enclosures  of  meadow  under  the  stone-pines,  where  the 
wild  anemone  hid  all  the  grass  under  a  mantle  of  vivid 
pink.  The  Borghese  anemone  was  a  real  wild  thing,  very 
like  the  English  wind-flower  that  shimmers  all  along  the 
landslip  and  the  undercliff  where  the  spring  tides  are 
flinging  the  Channel  surf  in  thunder  against  the  cliffs  of 
the  Isle  of  Wight.  Only  the  English  wind-flower  is  pale 
and  fragile,  white  or  lavender  for  choice,  and  the  Roman 
one  is  of  a  flaunting  purple-pink,  with  a  strong  stem  the 
colour  of  brown  madder  —  as  is  fitting  for  a  self- 
respecting  flower  sprung  from  a  soil  that  has  been  steeped 
in  sun  and  soaked  in  blood.  And  it  has  this  peculiarity, 
unique,  so  far  as  I  know,  among  wild  flowers,  that  if  you 
bring  it  home,  in  handfuls,  as  we  used  to  do,  and  set 
it  in  water  overnight,  it  will  have  grown  many  inches 
by  the  morning,  every  stalk  stiff  and  proud,  as  if  saying: 
"  You  thought  I  belonged  in  the  fields,  didn't  you?  No, 
indeed,  my  place  is  in  a  palace  1  " 

Very  different  is  the  anemone  of  Villa  Doria,  far  away 
across  the  city,  on  the  Janiculum.  It  too  nestles  beneath 
the  stone-pines,  in  the  fine  short  grass,  but  it  is  a  patri- 
cian bloom,  each  flower  perfect,  with  broad  polished 
petals  of  pure  ivory  or  vivid  scarlet  or  monsignore  pur- 
ple, diverging  from  a  heart  as  black  as  jet.  It  is  chary 
of  growth  and  keeps  close  to  the  ground,  and  you  must 
tread  delicately  or  you  will  crush  some  yet  unopened  buds. 
It  meant  a  good  deal  to  some  of  us  —  I  wonder  if  the 

69 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

others  remember?  One  did.  Far  away  in  China,  just 
before  my  eldest  boy  was  born,  there  blew  to  me  across 
the  world  a  film  of  Honiton  lace,  and  when  I  spread  it 
out,  there  was  a  garland  of  Villa  Doria  anemones  worked 
in  the  red  West  Country  that  is  the  Italy  of  England,  and 
sent  as  a  greeting  by  a  comrade  of  the  vanished  Roman 
days.  Why  don't  we  all  die  when  we  are  young  and 
sweet  and  true? 

But  to  return —  (for  the  — th  time?)  — to  my  very 
much  strayed  sheep  —  the  old  October  entertainments 
in  the  Villa  Borghese.  Those  who  have  not  lived  in  them 
would  find  it  hard  to  understand  what  that  month  means 
to  the  children  of  the  grape  countries.  It  is  the  very 
crown  of  the  year  in  Romagna,  indeed  all  over  Italy. 
The  heats  of  summer,  the  stifling  languors  of  scirocco, 
are  over  and  gone;  the  air  is  divinely  cool  and  bright, 
and  everything  sparkles  in  a  sun  that  warms  but  no  longer 
scorches;  the  wind  comes  dancing  over  the  mountains, 
like  a  song,  rustling  the  trees  and  shaking  little  showers 
of  bronzed  leaves  down  on  one's  head.  In  the  vine- 
yards the  vines  were  stripped  of  most  of  their  leaves  in 
August  to  let  the  grapes  bake  in  the  sun  till  their  hearts 
are  like  syrup  in  the  black  tight-drawn  skins.  Now,  if 
the  year  is  a  good  one,  the  rain  came  after  the  Feast  of 
the  Assumption  to  soften  and  swell  the  purple  covering  to 
all  but  bursting  point,  and  the  few  leaves  that  hang  on 
the  vines  have  turned  scarlet  and  yellow,  so  that  they 
look  like  huge  gaudy  butterflies  hovering  round  the  long 
pear-shaped  clusters  of  fruit.  The  strong  wilful  "  ceps  " 
is  like  fretted  gold  in  the  sunshine;  every  bunch  that 
is  brought  to  one's  table  must  be  of  perfect  shape  and 
have  two  or  three  inches  of  that  corrugated  stem  to 
carry  it  by  and  two  leaves  at  its  head  for  wings;  but 

70 


A  FEUDAL  VILLA 

by  the  first  day  of  October  the  mere  cutting  for  market 
is  over,  and  the  real  business  of  the  vintage  begins,  when 
the  great  wains  go  lumbering  down  the  alleys  of  the 
vineyard,  drawn  by  meek  white  oxen  who  move  slowly 
but  plunge  into  the  rich  loose  soil  up  to  the  fetlock  at 
every  step. 

The  vintners  creep  through  the  vine-rows,  clipping, 
clipping  with  their  clumsy  shears,  and  tossing  the  fruit 
into  the  osier  baskets  strapped  on  their  backs,  while  they 
sing  the  strange  old  songs  that  have  been  sung  at  the 
vintage  since  the  days  of  Servius  Tullius;  the  women's 
white  head-coverings  and  dark  blue  skirts  and  scarlet 
bodices  blaze  out  against  the  gold  and  green  of  the  vine- 
rows,  arid  as  they  carry  their  baskets  —  on  their  heads, 
after  immemorial  custom  —  to  the  man  waiting  on  the 
wagon,  they  move  with  smooth,  stately  steps,  like 
caryatides  released  from  the  marble.  Towards  midday 
the  first  wagons  are  full  and  go  trailing  up  to  the  wine 
press  near  the  house;  the  "  treaders,"  the  strongest  of 
the  young  men,  have  been  sitting  on  the  stone  bench  in 
the  shade,  for  their  work  is  all  before  them  and  they 
have  to  keep  limbs  and  garments  clean.  Now  the  wagon 
is  drawn  close  to  the  vat,  and  the  vintagers,  working  like 
demons,  toss  in  a  ton  or  two  of  grapes  till  the  huge 
receptacle  is  piled  high  above  its  edges  with  a  mountain 
of  purple  fruit.  A  ladder  is  set  against  it  and  the 
treader  scrambles  up,  his  bared  limbs  gleaming  like  cop- 
per in  the  sun,  and  the  next  instant  he  is  a  young 
Dionysus,  leaping  and  dancing  on  that  piled  sweetness, 
chanting  the  song  to  which  his  feet  keep  time,  while  the 
rosy  froth  streams  from  the  opening  below  into  a  second 
vat  that  ere  long  becomes  a  lake  of  dimpling  crimson 
must,  whose  heady  fragrance  floats  out  intoxicatingly  on 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

the  October  air.  Ah,  the  good  days!  It  would  indeed 
have  been  a  poor  heart  that  could  not  rejoice  in  them ! 

More  than  once  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  watch  this 
almost  sacred  process .  in  the  villa  where  I  happened  to 
be  spending  the  summer,  and,  though  I  am  jealous  for 
the  glories  of  Romagna,  I  must  admit  that  it  is  far  more 
picturesque  and  attractive  in  Tuscany.  The  whole  at- 
mosphere there  is  imbued  with  a  purity  and  calm  un- 
known to  the  perfervid  rollicking  South;  the  hills  are 
the  hills  of  Umbria  —  of  Perugino's  and  Francia's  back- 
grounds, pale  and  clear,  rounding  into  little  knolls  that 
are  more  silvery  than  golden  when  the  sun  kisses  side 
or  summit;  the  mulberry  and  the  acacia  and  the  olive 
throw  fans  of  timid  tracery  against  the  elusive  sky;  where 
the  olive  rustles  to  silver  in  the  breeze  a  thousand  shades 
of  grey  delight  the  eye,  and  on  every  ridge  the  sparse 
spires  of  the  Tuscan  cypresses,  so  feathery  slender  that 
the  tapering  points  are  fragile  as  a  fern's  fronds,  delimit 
the  view  in  lines  of  dark  delicacy  most  restfully  sym- 
metrical and  definite.  All  is  ascetic,  yet  tender,  save 
where,  far  off  on  the  plain,  the  low  red  wall  of  a  city 
lies  like  a  sword  across  the  land.  In  the  distance  Umbria, 
with  its  clean,  pale  landscapes,  so  significant  and  lucent 
under  the  quivering  dome  of  white,  seems  less  of  earth 
than  Heaven,  almost  breathlessly  impersonal,  a  country 
more  for  angels  than  for  men;  but  nearer  at  hand  she 
smiles  at  you,  like  some  saint  turning  from  the  ravish- 
ments of  contemplation  to  encourage  a  fellow-being  whose 
vision  is  not  clarified  to  behold  what  she  has  seen. 

If  you  stand  where  I  used  to  stand,  on  the  terraced 
eminence  of  a  Tuscan  "  podere,"  you  find  yourself  at 
the  apex  of  a  net  of  deep  and  wide  grassways,  diverging 
from  you  in  every  direction  till  the  lines  are  lost  in  a 

72 


A  FEUDAL  VILLA 

froth  of  greenery,  trained  along  avenues  of  mulberry 
trees  that  humbly  support  the  airy  garlands  twenty  and 
thirty  feet  from  the  ground.  The  trees  are  set  with  per- 
fect regularity,  but  wide  apart,  and  the  grapevines  fling 
themselves  from  one  to  another  in  sweeping  curves  that 
are  a  joy  to  see.  In  Romagna  the  vineyard  has  little 
beauty  of  its  own,  for  the  modern  cultivator  keeps  his 
grapes  within  a  few  feet  of  the  ground;  often  he  pulls 
them  up  every  year,  stores  them  carefully,  and  replaces 
them  in  the  spring.  But  further  north  the  stocky  stem 
is  encouraged  to  grow  and  harden  for  all  time;  time  be- 
stows upon  it  the  proportions  and  ruggedness  of  a  tree; 
and  the  fruit,  gloriously  confident  of  its  parent,  throws  out 
bunches  sometimes  two  feet  long;  of  incomparable  fulness 
and  flavour.  Around  Chiusi,  in  the  heart  of  Etruria, 
the  grapes  are  all  muscatels,  big  globes  of  pale  green 
jade,  freckled  with  agate,  and  the  perfume  they  distill 
is  that  of  the  white  Roman  rose  —  a  fragrance  indescrib- 
ably exquisite,  and  individual  to  that  fruit  and  that  flower 
alone.  In  my  girlhood  there  were  times  when  I  was  not 
very  strong;  life  was  almost  too  full,  and  I  had  to  rest 
from  it  sometimes.  Then  my  angel  mother  would  make 
me  lie  down  in  her  favourite  room,  the  one  where  the 
walls  were  rose  and  old-gold,  and  the  ceiling  a  vault  of 
mother-of-pearl  seen  through  Tuscan  grapevines,  and  she 
would  set  a  bunch  of  those  white  roses  and  a  tiny  Vene- 
tian goblet  of  amber-coloured  "  Est-Est  "  beside  me,  and 
leave  me  alone  for  hours,  while  the  fountain  played  in 
the  courtyard  and  the  Roman  dusk  came  down  and  made 
shadows  in  the  room.  Then  I  used  to  close  my  eyes  and 
play  a  little  game,  trying  to  find  out  which  was  rose  and 
which  was  wine  —  and  fall  asleep  before  the  point  was 
decided  —  to  dream  that  I  was  angel  or  butterfly  —  all 

73 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

wings,  anyway,  free  in  a  world  where  language  was  scent 
and  music.  Spoiling?  Surely.  But  it  was  training,  in 
a  way.  Why  not  develop  all  the  senses  that  can  help  us 
in  the  long,  long  march  of  life? 

There  was  nothing  languorous  in  the  Tuscan  airs. 
Even  in  the  hottest  hour  of  summer  one  was  eager,  in- 
terested, glad  to  move  about;  and  when  early  autumn 
brought  the  vintage,  life  simply  bubbled  in  one's  veins. 
I  could  stand  all  day  watching  the  oxen  crawling  up  those 
grassy  roads  between  the  trellised  vines,  with  the  splen- 
did loads  of  grapes,  or  hover  near  the  vats  where  the 
white-clad  youths,  who  looked  like  Carpaccio's  pages, 
danced  and  leapt  as  they  trod  the  wine-press.  We  had  to 
come  away  before  the  vintage  was  over,  so  as  not  to 
miss  too  much  of  the  October  loveliness  at  home,  but 
the  grapes  followed  us  all  the  way.  There  was  one  sta- 
tion —  that  of  Chiusi,  I  think  —  where  the  "  ristorante  " 
consisted  of  a  little  hand-cart  with  a  high  rail  all  around 
the  sides;  the  rail  was  hung  with  hundreds  of  bunches 
of  those  scented,  freckled  grapes  —  two  sous  a  bunch,  if 
you  please  —  and  the  vendor  pushed  it  up  and  down  the 
platform  close  to  the  carriage  windows.  It  was  a  hot 
day,  and  never  was  fruit  more  welcome ! 


In  the  "  spacious  days  "  of  the  earlier  part  of  the 
century  the  Borghese  family,  being,  though  not  the  most 
ancient,  the  wealthiest  in  Rome,  used  to  mark  the  crown 
of  the  year  by  giving  in  their  villa  certain  entertainments, 
intended  chiefly  for  their  own  tenants,  but  the  hospitality 
of  which  was  extended  to  the  entire  population.  The 
princely  lavishness  of  these  festivities  resembled  nothing 

74 


A  FEUDAL  VILLA 

that  I  have  ever  heard  of  in  modern  times;  it  recalled 
indeed  the  days  of  Roman  Emperors  whose  only  claim  to 
the  throne  rested  on  their  popularity  with  the  people. 
On  the  Sundays  of  October  the  villa  was  thrown  open 
at  sunrise,  and  from  all  the  "  castelli  "  of  the  Sabine  and 
Alban  Hills,  and  from  the  sea-coast  too,  the  peasants, 
who  had  been  watching  all  night  (and  in  some  cases  all 
the  previous  day),  having  heard  Mass,  trooped  in  with 
their  wives  and  families,  to  eat  and  drink  and  enjoy  them- 
selves. Those  were  the  times  when  every  district  had 
its  distinctive  costume,  and  the  dazzling  effects  of  colour 
were  such  as  we  shall  never  see  again.  The  coast  towns 
are  very  Greek,  and  the  dress  of  the  Nettuno  and  Fano 
women  is  almost  Greek  still  —  a  clinging  skirt  and  close- 
fitting  coatlet  of  vivid  scarlet,  the  tint  that  makes  the 
eyes  swim  and  wince  —  imparted,  by  secrets  of  their  own, 
to  a  cloth  of  such  velvety  purity  and  softness  that  it 
lasts  through  three  and  four  generations,  and  cost  them 
(it  is  probably  unobtainable  now)  five  dollars  the 
"  palmo  "  of  ten  inches  —  half  a  dollar  an  inch.  The  hair 
was  worn  in  two  long  braids  hanging  down  the  back 
from  under  a  small  cap  of  the  same  cloth,  set  rather  far 
back  on  the  head,  and  cap  and  bodice  and  skirt  were  stiff 
with  gold  embroidery.  The  effect  was  magnificent. 

Very  different  was  the  dress  of  the  Albanese,  with 
which,  in  a  modified  form,  most  travellers  are  familiar, 
since  the  women  of  Albano  still  have  the  privilege  of  nurs- 
ing the  aristocratic  babies  of  Rome.  Their  costume  con- 
sists of  a  long  full  skirt  of  flowered  silk,  pale  blue  or  cin- 
namon colour,  brocaded  with  red  carnations  or  pink  roses; 
the  "  busto  "  or  corset,  as  well  as  the  tight  long  cuffs 
that  reach  from  wrist  to  elbow,  are  of  that  same  scarlet 
cloth  and  trimmed  with  heavy  gold  braid;  but  the  chief 

75 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

beauty  of  the  costume  is  in  the  fine  lace  of  the  voluminous 
"  fichu  "  which  is  pinned  low  down  in  folds  behind  to 
leave  the  strong  young  neck  bare,  and  folded  in  to  the 
corset  in  front,  over  a  camisole  of  finest  linen,  also  much 
adorned  with  lace.  The  fichu  leaves  all  the  throat  — 
such  a  column  of  ivory!  —  and  some  expanse  of  chest 
bare  to  rise  and  fall  under  half  a  dozen  strings  of  dark 
faceted  red  coral,  huge  beads  bought  by  the  ounce  and 
treasured  for  hundreds  of  years;  the  earrings  are  great 
danglums  of  dropping  pearls,  and  the  headdress  a  crown 
of  ruffled  ribbon  three  or  four  inches  wide,  set  tight  round 
the  coil  of  bfaids  and  held  in  place  by  big  pins  of  gold 
filigree,  while  two  long  streamers  of  the  ribbon  hang 
nearly  down  to  the  hem  of  the  skirt  behind.  A  lace 
apron,  like  that  which  Hungarian  ladies  wear  with  court 
dress,  completes  the  costume,  and  nobody  can  quarrel 
with  "  Balia  "  for  holding  her  handsome  head  very  high 
when  she  wears  it. 

No  greater  contrast  can  be  imagined  than  that  pre- 
sented by  these  two  costumes,  of  which  one  or  the  other 
strikes  the  type  all  through  Romagna;  and  the  men,  in 
old  times,  were  as  picturesquely  clad  as  the  women, 
though  deprived  of  the  gold  and  lace  in  which  the  lat- 
ter delighted.  Fancy  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  these 
splendidly  attired  beings,  with  the  beauty  which  is  still 
the  land's  blessed  heritage,  streaming  up  the  different 
avenues  under  those  noble  trees  and  then  gathering  in  to 
the  feast  prepared  for  them  in  the  private  garden  —  a 
large  open  space  laid  out  in  variegated  flower-beds  of 
quaint  design,  and,  on  these  famous  Sundays,  converted 
into  an  open-air  banqueting  hall  where,  at  long  tables 
loaded  with  good  things,  the  crowds  could  eat  their  full, 
quenching  their  thirst  at  one  of  the  fountains  which  ran 


with  wine  from  dawn  to  dark.  None  were  debarred  from 
sharing  the  Prince's  hospitality,  whether  they  were  his 
own  people  or  strangers,  and  the  "  plebs  "  of  Rome,  who 
poured  out  in  thousands,  were  as  welcome  as  all  the  ten- 
ants and  labourers  on  his  many  estates.  My  dear  old 
stepfather,  who  saw  it  all  when  he  was  a  young  man  and 
described  it  to  me,  said  that  what  most  impressed  him 
was  the  perfect  order  that  prevailed  all  day,  the  Romans 
having  the  happy  gift  of  being  able  to  enjoy  themselves 
without  becoming  riotous. 

One  of  the  great  features  of  the  villa  is  the  "  Teatro 
di  Siena,"  the  amphitheatre  on  the  Pincio  side  of  the  prin- 
cipal avenue.  The  base  is  a  green  expanse  of  turf,  from 
which  rise  several  tiers  of  narrow  terraces  marked  in 
white  marble  and  also  paved  with  turf.  The  summit  of 
the  circle  is  guarded  by  a  ring  of  tall  stone-pines  which 
close  it  in  and  make  an  admirable  frame  for  the  spec- 
tacles of  one  kind  and  another  which  have  taken  place 
there.  The  prettiest  I  ever  saw  was  the  tournament  given 
at  the  time  of  the  Duke  of  Genoa's  wedding,  in  which 
the  present  King  of  Italy,  then  a  young  boy,  took  such 
an  animated  part.*  In  the  October  days  of  which  I  was 
speaking  a  still  more  interesting  show  was  provided  in 
the  form  of  chariot  races,  copied  exactly  from  the  an- 
cient Roman  ones,  the  charioteers,  bareheaded  youths  in 
classical  costume,  standing  in  the  gilt  "  bigas  "  and  urg- 
ing their  teams  to  wildest  speed  round  the  broad  race- 
course, while  the  bands  filled  the  air  with  stirring  music, 
and  the  people  stood  up  in  their  seats  and  yelled  and 
cheered,  and  laid  their  money  on  this  or  that  chariot,  just 
as  their  ancestors  did  in  the  Coliseum  or  in  Nero's  circus 
two  thousand  years  ago.  Now,  as  then,  the  only  official 

•Sec  "A  Diplomatist's  Wife  in  Many  Lands." 

77 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

reward  for  the  victor  was  a  laurel  crown  and  the  renown 
that  came  with  it. 

The  upheavals  of  1848  made  an  end  of  the  old  feudal 
ways  and  festivities;  but,  though  it  may  appear  incom- 
prehensible to  the  philistines  who  rule  the  world  to-day, 
they  furnished  mighty  strands  in  the  ties  of  sympathy  and 
good-will  which  hold  class  and  class  together  and  keep 
a  country  sober,  contented,  and  law-abiding.  All  healthy 
human  nature  needs  healthy  excitement  from  time  to  time, 
and,  if  that  be  unattainable,  the  craving  is  so  imperative 
that  it  will  find  satisfaction  in  other  and  less  wholesome 
ways. 

Talking  of  excitement,  one  realises  that  the  ancients, 
in  spite  of  the  good  taste  with  which  we  usually  credit 
them,  would  have  participated  only  too  joyfully  in  all 
our  modern  crimes  of  speed  had  the  opportunity  been 
afforded.  The  inscription  unearthed  at  Pompeii  the  other 
day  shows  that  they  could  be  as  callous  as  ourselves  in 
the  pursuit  of  pleasure.  "  To-day  " —  here  follows  the 
date  — "  a  Roman  Knight  in  his  biga  ran  over  our  little 
Calpurnius,  aged  three  years.  May  Pluto  shortly  have 
his  soul !  "  One  is  reminded  of  the  child  at  the  East-end 
Sunday-school,  who,  being  asked  to  define  the  meaning  of 
the  clause  in  the  Creed  which  speaks  of  "  the  quick  and 
the  dead,"  replied :  "  Them  that  runs  away  when  the  mo- 
tors is  coming  is  the  quick,  and  them  that  doesn't  is  the 
dead!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  CHURCH  PILGRIMAGE 

Church's  Pilgrimage  on  the  Feast  of  the  Apostles — The  Seven  Com- 
memorative Churches — The  Byzantine  Basilica  of  St.  Paul — The  Apos- 
tle's Tomb — Ostian  Way,  the  Saddest  of  All  Roads— The  Tideless 
Sea — Call  of  the  Unknown,  Gorgeous  East — Santa  Pudentiana,  the 
Site  of  St.  Paul's  First  Abiding  Place  in  Rome — Christianity  in  Early 
Rome — Priest  Pastor's  Story  of  the  Pudens  Family — Holy  Relics — 
Story  of  the  Crime  of  the  Vico  Scellerato — The  Last  of  the  Roman 
Kings. 

FROM  things  of  the  recent  past  let  us  turn  for  a 
moment  to  follow  a  pilgrimage  which  the  Church 
makes  during  the  seven  days  following  the  Feast  of  the 
Apostles  in  June  and  in  the  course  of  which  she  draws 
our  attention  to  the  seven  spots  in  the  Eternal  City  most 
closely  connected  with  their  glorious  end.  These  spots 
had  been  for  long  centuries  points  of  attraction  to  the 
Christians  who  flocked  Rome-wards  from  all  over  the 
world  at  that  time  of  year,  but  it  was  not  till  1743  that 
Benedict  XIV,  Prospero  Lambertini  of  Bologna  (and 
the  fifth  Pontiff  born  in  that  city  of  learning),  laid  down 
the  order  in  which  the  seven  sanctuaries  should  be  pub- 
licly honoured.* 

In  a  bull  dated  April  i,  1743,  Benedict  decreed  that 
the  various  corporations  of  the  hierarchy  should  take  it 
in  turn  to  honour  the  Octave  of  SS.  Peter  and  Paul  by 

*  Until  the  year  844  the  Popes  had  continued  to  bear  their  own  names 
after  being  elected  to  the  Throne,  but  when  the  choice  fell  on  a  holy  and 
humble  man  called  Peter,  he  refused  to  keep  the  name  of  the  Prince  of  the 
Apostles  and  chose  for  himself  that  of  Sergvis — a  renunciation  which 
instituted  the  custom,  followed  ever  since,  of  the  Pope's  selecting  a  new 
name  on  his  accession. 

79 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

proceeding  in  state  to  the  Church  designated  for  the  day 
when  a  pontifical  Mass  was  to  be  celebrated,  with  the 
assistance  of  the  whole  body  of  the  Pope's  Chair.  These 
seven  Churches  are  so  bound  up  with  the  last  days  of 
our  great  Fathers  in  the  Faith  that  in  passing  from  one 
to  another  it  is  possible  to  realise  very  vividly  the  scenes 
of  the  tremendous  drama  enacted  in  the  year  of  grace  67 
during  the  last  days  of  Heaven's  patience  with  the 
tyranny  of  Nero. 

Taking  them  in  their  order  we  will  leave  the  Pope, 
according  to  his  wish,  to  say  his  Mass  in  St.  Peter's 
on  the  3Oth  of  June,  and  follow  the  Apostolic  Vicars,  his 
"  Assistants  of  the  Throne,"  as  they  go  in  state  to  the 
Basilica  of  St.  Paul  without  the  Walls.  Once  that  long 
road  skirting  the  river  was  the  most  crowded  of  the  ap- 
proaches to  the  city,  but  that  was  before  the  Tiber,  hav- 
ing gorged  itself  to  congestion  with  silt  and  plunder,  had 
turned  aside  to  find  another  outlet,  when  the  galleys  could 
still  be  rowed  up  within  sight  of  Rome  and  tumble  out 
their  freight  of  grain  or  marble  or  wild  beasts  on  the 
quays  that  are  deserted  to-day.  The  Ostian  Way  is  the 
saddest  of  all  roads  now;  few  ever  pass  over  it;  there 
is  but  one  habitation  between  the  city  gate  and  the  Ba- 
silica, nearly  two  miles  distant.  The  river  rolls,  yellow 
and  sullen,  to  the  sea,  through  flat  lowland,  reeking  with 
malaria  from  the  swamps,  where  the  fierce  black  buffaloes 
still  wander  at  will,  and  vehemently  resent  the  intrusion 
of  a  stranger  on  their  domain. 

The  Basilica  to  which  the  Vicars  Apostolic  of  Bene- 
dict XIV  went  in  state  was  not  the  one  which  pilgrims 
visit  now;  in  the  early  days  it  was  the  centre  of  a  thriv- 
ing little  town  outside  the  town,  the  suburb  of  Joan- 
nopolis,  so  called  from  Pope  John  VII,  who  founded  and 

80 


A  CHURCH  PILGRIMAGE 

fortified  it  as  a  stronghold  for  the  defence  of  Rome  on 
the  side  towards  the  sea.  Built  in  the  time  of  Constan- 
tine,  added  to  through  the  centuries,  ever  more  beautified 
and  never  defaced,  those  who  saw  it  tell  us  that  it  was 
a  perfect  specimen  of  the  Byzantine  Basilica,  nobly  se- 
vere, making  the  impression  of  vast  undisturbed  spaces 
for  worship,  yet  in  reality  a  treasure-house  of  riches  and 
art.  Its  mysterious  destruction  by  fire,  scarcely  to  be 
accounted  for  in  an  erection  all  of  marble  and  stone,  took 
place  on  the  I5th  of  July,  1823,  on  the  last  night  of  the 
life  of  Pius  VII,  the  Pontiff  upon  whom  Napoleon  had 
laid  sacrilegious  hands  and  kept  in  captivity  over  five 
years  —  a  captivity  that  in  years,  months,  and  days  was 
precise  in  duration  with  his  own  after-imprisonment  at 
Saint  Helena.  Dates  are  curious  things ! 

While  Pius  VII  lay  on  his  deathbed  on  that  night  of 
the  1 5th  of  July  (the  anniversary  of  his  signing  of  the 
Concordat,  twenty-two  years  earlier),  he  was  greatly 
distressed  by  a  dream  which  roused  him  again  and  again 
from  torpor  to  enquire  of  his  attendants  whether  some 
great  calamity  had  not  fallen  on  Rome.  With  the  dawn 
came  the  news  of  the  burning  of  the  Basilica,  but  it  was 
kept  from  him,  and  he  passed  away  that  day,  without 
learning  the  truth  of  that  which  the  clairvoyance  of  ap- 
proaching dissolution  had  cloudily  revealed  to  him. 

Some  fragments  were  saved  and  incorporated  in  the 
new  Church  which  at  once  rose  to  replace  the  ancient  one, 
of  which  the  Sovereigns  of  England  were,  until  the  Ref- 
ormation, proud  to  call  themselves  the  titular  protectors. 
The  minute  description  of  the  original  Basilica,  left  us 
by  Cardinal  Wiseman  and  others  who  had  seen  it,  shows 
how,  in  all  respects  save  one,  the  new  one  falls  short  of 
the  earlier  beauty  and  majesty;  but  the  tomb  of  St.  Paul, 

81 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

the  heart  of  the  whole,  remains  to  us  intact,  far  below  the 
level  where  fire  or  storm  can  rend  it,  and  the  very  empti- 
ness and  bareness  of  the  great  Church  above  seem  to 
enhance  the  awe  inspired  by  that  great  sarcophagus  in 
the  crypt  —  raised  high  from  the  ground  of  the  deep 
vault,  as  on  an  altar  throne,  so  as  to  be  above  the  depre- 
dations of  the  Tiber  even  in  the  river's  most  uncon- 
trollable outbreaks. 

There,  as  far  as  human  foresight  can  discern,  the  holy, 
weary  relics  will  lie  till  the  Judgment  Day,  resting  after 
all  the  travel  and  shipwrecks,  the  cold  and  hunger  and 
strifes  of  life,  and  from  the  hurried  journeys  on  which 
they  were  carried  hither  and  thither,  in  search  of  safety 
from  profanation,  after  death.  There  is  a  loneliness  of 
grandeur  about  the  character  and  mission  of  St.  Paul 
which,  in  these  ends  of  time,  have  come  to  surround  his 
grave  also,  and  they  suit  it  well.  Often  in  my  girlhood  I 
traversed  that  desolate  road  between  the  city  and  the  sea, 
and  all  the  vitality  of  youth  could  not  avert  the  shudder 
of  cold  and  solitude  that  came  over  me  in  doing  so,  no 
matter  how  numerous  and  gay  my  companions  might  be. 
We  used  to  drive  out  to  Ostia  in  the  spring,  when  the 
sea  calls  so  alluringly  to  its  lovers,  and  spend  long  hours 
under  the  pines  that  fringe  the  beach.  The  Tiber  aban- 
doned the  old  port  long  ago  and  twists  itself  into  the 
Mediterranean  a  couple  of  miles  north  of  its  original  out- 
let. In  April  the  stretch  of  low  rolling  ground  near 
Castel  Fusano  is  all  one  field  of  wild  jonquils  that  fill 
the  air  with  perfume,  and  beyond  them  there  is  nothing 
but  the  long  forsaken  beach  and  the  regular  beat  of  the 
tideless  sea.  I  stood  there  one  day  on  a  little  rock  as 
far  out  as  I  dared  to  go,  with  the  waves  breaking  round 
my  feet,  and  the  west  wind  singing  in  my  ears  —  singing 

82 


A  CHURCH  PILGRIMAGE 

strange  songs  of  far  lands  that  were  already  beckoning 
me  away  from  my  Roman  home.  The  sun  had  sunk  to- 
wards them,  leaving  the  sky  a  dome  of  green  and  citron, 
delicate  and  dim;  the  sea  was  sullen  grey  on  the  hither 
side,  and  floating  opal  in  the  west;  and  when  at  last  I 
was  called  back  to  land,  the  pines  leaned  together  and 
whispered  dark  things  about  the  destinies  of  mortal  maids 
who  ventured  to  listen  to  the  call  of  the  Unknown. 

And  how  it  calls  me  yet  —  the  Unknown  that  has 
just  flicked  its  fringes  in  my  eyes,  wafted  a  ghost  of  its 
scent  in  my  nostrils !  There  are  two  of  us  —  I  and  my 
first-born  —  to  whom  Mother  Asia  still  cries  heart- 
breakingly  through  all  the  stress  and  all  the  staleness  of 
life  in  the  ready-made  places.  We  began  our  life  there 
together,  the  baby  who  opened  his  eyes  in  the  white  heat 
of  an  Asiatic  summer,  and  I,  who  had  passed  from  girl- 
hood to  motherhood  at  his  coming;  we  two  knew  it,  the 
air  of  the  great  plains  that  reach  from  Pechili  to  the 
Tundras,  from  Peking  to  Lake  Oo-nor  —  and  the  Altai 
—  the  padding  of  the  camels'  feet  in  the  dust  —  the  smell 
of  camphor  and  sandal-wood,  and  tea-brick  —  the  touch 
of  Siberian  sable  and  silver  fox,  lighter  than  my  kiss  on 
his  cheek,  warmer  than  my  arms  around  his  body  —  the 
clang  of  the  hammer  on  the  bronze,  the  damp  sweetness 
of  the  temple  courts,  the  gleam  of  rough  gold  and  the 
blue  of  the  turquoise  —  the  melancholy  eternal  splendour 
of  the  heart  of  Asia,  the  dear  raw  strength  of  it  all, 
uncannily  perfumed  and  terrifyingly  sacred,  as  the  scent 
let  loose  from  some  regal,  balm-stuffed  tomb!  And  we 
go  back  to  Asia  and  follow  the  caravans  starting  for 
Nijni  Novgorod,  and  talk  with  the  merchants,  and  rest 
in  our  own  fairy  temple  among  the  white  pines  of  the 
western  hills  —  for  whole  nights  together  sometimes  — 

83 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

and  the  next  day  return  to  our  places  in  the  cheap  civilised 
world  as  if  nothing  had  happened  —  and  we  never  tell 
anybody  where  we  have  been  1 


But  we  must  continue  to  follow  another  and  more  im- 
portant pilgrimage.  On  the  ist  of  July,  the  "  Apostolic 
Pronotaries "  celebrate  the  Divine  Mysteries  in  the 
Church  of  Santa  Pudentiana,  the  sanctuary  which  stands 
upon  the  site  of  the  house  where  St.  Paul  lived  during  his 
first  stay  in  Rome  from  41  to  50  A.D.  It  was  the  prop- 
erty of  Pudens,  the  same,  apparently,  whom  St.  Paul 
mentions  in  his  second  Epistle  to  Timothy,  together  with 
Eubulus  and  Linus  (afterwards  Pope)  and  Claudia. 
Pudens  was  a  wealthy  Senator  who  eagerly  embraced  the 
Christian  Faith  and  brought  all  his  family  and  household 
into  the  Fold.  What  power  they  nad  for  good,  those 
masters  of  huge  households,  in  the  Rome  of  the  First 
Century  of  our  era !  Doubtless,  Pudens,  like  many  others 
of  whom  it  is  consoling  to  read  even  in  that  age  of  gross 
selfishness  and  cruelty,  had  ever  been  a  just  man  and 
merciful  to  his  slaves;  but  what  must  have  been  the  re- 
joicing of  the  poor  bondsmen  when  he  summoned  them 
to  listen  to  the  Apostle  and  learn  that  Christ  died  for 
all,  that  He  had  bought  for  each  one  of  them,  as  fully 
as  for  the  greatest  potentate  on  earth,  an  eternity  of  hap- 
piness in  which  they  would  be  compensated  for  all  the 
privations  and  sorrows  of  life!  Think  what  that  doc- 
trine meant  to  the  unfortunate  creatures  for  whom  not 
only  life  itself  with  no  hope  or  intimation  of  a  beyond, 
but  every  alleviation  of  their  wretched  lot,  depended  on 
the  whim  of  an  owner,  who,  if  reasonable  and  kind  him- 
self, might  at  any  moment  sell  or  present  them  to  an- 

84 


A  CHURCH  PILGRIMAGE 

other,  of  the  most  cruel  and  savage  character!  Even 
to  those  of  them  who  did  not  at  once  embrace  Chris- 
tianity the  master's  altered  convictions  must  have  brought 
intense  relief  and  comfort,  and,  to  those  who  did,  it  must 
have  been  like  the  rising  of  a  sun  of  warmth  in  darkest, 
coldest  night. 

We  get  a  beautiful  glimpse  into  the  home  life  of  Chris- 
tians in  those  days  in  the  detailed  story  of  the  family 
of  Pudens,  left  us  by  the  Priest,  Pastor,  the  brother  of 
Pius  I.  The  friend  and  host  of  St.  Paul,  having  mightily 
aided  the  cause  of  the  Faith,  was  rewarded,  it  is  believed, 
with  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  under  Nero,  but  his  son, 
also  named  Pudens,  and  heir  to  his  virtues  as  well  as  his 
estates,  vigorously  continued  the  good  work  begun  by  the 
father,  and  brought  up  his  two  daughters,  Praxedis  and 
Pudentiana,  in  the  love  of  God  from  their  earliest  years. 
Of  the  manner  of  his  end  I  have  found  no  record,  though 
we  may  be  sure  it  was  a  happy  one;  we  know  that  by  the 
time  Pudentiana  was  sixteen,  she  and  her  sister  were 
orphans,  the  possessors  of  great  riches,  and  that  they  had 
vowed  themselves  to  the  service  of  God  and  His  poor. 

It  was  the  privilege  of  wealthy  Christians  to  provide 
fitting  places  for  the  celebration  of  the  Sacred  Mysteries 
and  for  the  assembling  of  catechumens  for  instruction, 
whenever  a  lull  in  the  tempests  of  fast-succeeding  perse- 
cutions made  it  safe  for  them  to  pray  and  teach  else- 
where than  in  the  Catacombs.  Pudentiana,  although  the 
younger  of  the  two  sisters  and  scarcely  more  than  a  child 
when  she  died,  seems  to  have  been  of  a  most  valiant 
spirit,  the  one  to  direct  and  organise,  while  the  gentle 
Praxedis,  destined  to  survive  her  for  some  years,  sup- 
ported and  aided  her  in  all  things.  These  two  rich  girls, 
in  the  flower  of  their  youth,  gave  all  their  time  to  prayer 

85 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

and  praise,  to  chanty  and  penance.  '  They  desired," 
says  Pastor,  "  to  have  a  baptistery  in  their  house,  to  which 
the  blessed  Pius  not  only  consented,  but  drew  the  plan  of 
the  fountain  for  it  with  his  own  hand.  Then,  calling 
in  their  slaves,  both  from  town  and  country,  the  two  vir- 
gins gave  liberty  to  those  who  were  Christians,  and  urged 
belief  in  the  Faith  on  those  who  had  not  yet  received  it. 
By  the  advice  of  the  blessed  Pius,  the  affranchisement 
was  declared,  with  all  the  ancient  usages,  in  the  oratory 
founded  by  Pudens;  then,  at  the  festival  of  Easter,  ninety- 
six  neophytes  were  baptised;  so  that  thenceforth  assem- 
blies were  constantly  held  in  the  said  oratory,  which  re- 
sounded with  hymns  of  praise  night  and  day.  Many 
pagans  gladly  came  thither  to  find  the  faith  and  receive 
baptism. 

"  Meanwhile  the  Emperor  Antoninus,  being  informed 
of  what  was  taking  place,  issued  an  edict  commanding  all 
Christians  to  dwell  apart  in  their  own  houses,  without 
mixing  with  the  rest  of  the  people;  also  forbidding  them 
to  go  to  the  public  shops  or  to  frequent  the  baths. 
Praxedis  and  Pudentiana  then  gathered  into  their  own 
house  those  whom  they  had  led  to  the  faith,  and  shel- 
tered and  nourished  them  for  many  days,  all  watching 
and  praying.  The  blessed  Bishop  Pius  himself  frequently 
visited  us  with  joy,  and  often  offered  the  Sacrifice  for  us 
to  the  Saviour. 

'  Then  Pudentiana  went  to  God.  Her  sister  and  I 
wrapped  her  in  perfumes  and  kept  her  concealed  in  the 
oratory.  Then,  at  the  end  of  twenty-eight  days,  we  car- 
ried her  to  the  cemetery  of  Priscilla,  and  laid  her  near 
her  father,  Pudens. 

"  Eleven  months  after,  Novatus  *  died  in  his  turn.    He 

*  St.  Novatus — apparently  a  brother  or  cousin  of  Pudens. 

86 


A  CHURCH  PILGRIMAGE 

bequeathed  all  his  goods  to  Praxedis,  and  she  then 
begged  of  St.  Pius  to  erect  a  Church  in  the  baths  of 
Novatus,  which  were  no  longer  used  and  where  there  was 
a  large  and  spacious  hall.  The  Bishop  made  the  dedica- 
tion in  the  name  of  the  blessed  virgin  Praxedis  herself, 
and  in  the  same  place  he  consecrated  a  baptistery. 

"  But  at  the  end  of  two  years  a  great  persecution  was 
declared  against  the  Christians,  and  many  received  the 
crown  of  martyrdom.  Praxedis  concealed  a  great  num- 
ber of  them  in  her  oratory  and  nourished  them  with  the 
food  of  this  world  and  the  Word  of  God.  But  the  Em- 
peror Antoninus,  having  learnt  that  these  meetings  took 
place  in  the  oratory  of  Praxedis,  caused  it  to  be  searched, 
and  many  Christians  were  taken,  especially  the  Priest 
Simetrius  and  twenty-two  others,  and  the  blessed  Praxedis 
collected  their  bodies  by  night,  and  buried  them  in  the 
cemetery  of  Priscilla  on  the  seventh  day  of  the  Kalends  of 
June.  Then  the  virgin  of  the  Saviour,  worn  out  with 
sorrow,  only  asked  for  death.  Her  tears  and  her  pray- 
ers reached  to  Heaven,  and  fifty-four  days  after  her 
brethren  had  suffered  she  passed  to  God.  And  I,  Pastor 
the  Priest,  have  buried  her  body  near  that  of  her  father, 
Pudens."  * 

There  is  nothing  that  could  be  added  to  the  Priest 
Pastor's  story.  It  is  so  complete,  so  loving,  and  so  illu- 
minating in  the  gentle  charity  with  which  it  tells  us  that 
"  Pudentiana  passed  to  God."  Not  a  word  of  her  cruel 
death  —  we  know  of  that  from  other  sources,  no  com- 
plaints about  the  rampant  hatred  which  made  it  neces- 
sary to  conceal  her  body  for  four  weeks  before  it  could 
be  laid  beside  that  of  her  father  in  the  holy  ground  of  the 

•This  translation  of  Pastor's  narrative  is  the  one  used  by  Augustus  J. 
Hare  in  his  "  Walks  in  Rome." 

8? 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Appian  Way.  All  is  told  without  a  spark  of  rancour  or 
an  exclamation  of  grief  —  yet  when  Pastor  buried  Praxe- 
dis  beside  her  sister,  the  loving  circle  to  which  he  had 
ministered  in  their  house  was  broken  up,  every  member 
of  the  family  was  dead,  as  well  as  most  of  the  friends 
they  gathered  there;  the  home  had  been  raided  and  dese- 
crated, and  he  was  a  marked  man,  holding  himself,  in 
readiness  for  his  end. 

What  strikes  one  particularly  in  all  the  stories  of  this 
time  is  the  resolute  veneration  with  which  the  Christians, 
in  spite  of  all  prohibitions,  collected  the  bodies  of  their 
slain  comrades  and  succeeded  in  burying  them  in  holy 
ground.  The  bodies  of  Pudentiana  and  Praxedis  were 
finally  restored  to  their  home,  already  consecrated  as  a 
church,  and  there  we  can  behold  at  this  day  the  phials 
in  which  they  gathered  up  the  blood  of  the  martyrs.  It 
was  the  zeal  of  the  valiant  Pudentiana  in  this  work  of 
love  which  drew  down  upon  her  the  wrath  of  the  perse- 
cutors and  hastened  her  own  death.  A  hundred  years 
later  the  noble  Cecilia,  with  her  husband  and  his  brother, 
suffered  for  the  same  cause,  and  what  thousands  had  been 
immolated  for  it  between!  Nothing  could  daunt  the 
Christian  spirit  in  this  regard,  and  it  cannot  but  enhance 
the  preciousness  of  our  holy  relics  to  reflect  that  so  many 
of  our  forbears  in  the  Faith  preserved  them  for  us  at 
the  price  of  their  own  lives. 

There  are  some  startling  juxtapositions  in  the  topog- 
raphy of  old  Rome.  But  a  stone's  throw  from  the  ven- 
erable Church  of  St.  Pudentiana  is  a  spot  which,  when 
I  was  a  child,  was  still  regarded  by  the  Romans  as  cursed, 
still  known  to  us  as  the  Vico  Scellerato,  though  I  do 
not  find  the  name  on  the  modern  lists  of  Roman  streets. 
It  was  there  that  was  enacted  the  last  scene  of  one  of 

88 


A  CHURCH  PILGRIMAGE 

the  ugliest  tragedies  in  the  records  of  humanity,  a  story 
of  crime  so  appalling  that  it  has  survived  twenty-five 
centuries  of  oblivion,  and  is  still  told,  with  shudders 
of  horror,  among  the  poor  people  of  that  quarter 
of  the  city,  even  as  the  memory  of  the  good  Queen 
Tanaquil  is  still  venerated  for  her  virtue  and  wisdom. 
In  these  times,  when  so  much  instructive  old  material 
has  been  swept  away  to  make  room  for  the  fads  and 
futilities  of  modern  education,  it  ^seems  worth  while  to 
place  the  tale  on  record  again.  It  opens  (as  did  the 
history  of  Hipparchus)  with  a  Greek,  one  Lucumo, 
who  drifted  to  Italy  in  the  days  of  Ancus  Martius. 
Lucumo  was  the  son  of  a  native  of  Corinth,  and,  on  land- 
ing in  Italy,  settled  at  a  town  in  the  heart  of  Etruria, 
called  Tarquinii.  Doubtless  he  found  friends  and  coun- 
trymen there,  for  the  Greeks  were  ever  a  roving  people 
and,  to  judge  by  the  Greek  influence  so  visible  in  Etrus- 
can Art,  must  very  early  have  brought  their  love  of  beauty 
and  skill  in  labour  thither.  Tarquinii  was  a  walled  city, 
five  miles  in  circumference,  as  can  still  be  seen  from  the 
remains  near  Corneto  Tarquinii,  the  town  which  has  re- 
placed it.  But  it  was  not  stirring  enough  for  the  venture- 
some Lucumo,  and,  moved  perhaps  by  some  such  myste- 
rious power  as  that  which,  centuries  later,  whispered  in 
Alaric's  ear,  "  Penetrabis  ad  Urbem,"  travelled  south- 
wards and  came  to  Rome,  bringing  with  him  his  beauti- 
ful Greek  wife,  Tanaquil,  and  all  his  goods,  which  ap- 
pear to  have  been  of  great  value.  It  was  quite  a  caravan, 
therefore,  which  approached  the  northern  gate  of  the 
city,  and  one  can  fancy  the  hum  of  excited  talk  among 
children  and  dependents  as  they  paused  to  gaze  at  it. 

At  that  moment  a  great  eagle,  flapping  along  in  search 
of  a  Campagna  lambkin  for  its  brood  in  the  Sabines, 

89 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

hovered  above  the  travellers  for  a  moment,  its  dark 
wings  spread  motionless  against  the  blue;  then  it  darted 
down,  and,  snatching  the  cap  from  the  head  of  Lucumo, 
soared  away  with  it,  while  all  gazed  up  in  awe  and  con- 
sternation, wondering  what  the  marvel  might  portend. 
In  an  instant  another  followed.  The  eagle,  after  wheel- 
ing aloft,  swooped  down  once  more  and  replaced  the  cov- 
ering on  the  leader's  head,  then  flew  away  and  was  no 
more  seen.  "  It  is  a  happy  omen !  "  cried  Tanaquil  to 
her  husband,  "  of  this  great  city  thou  shalt  one  day  be 
King!" 

He  found  a  warm  welcome  in  Rome  and  so  endeared 
himself  to  the  inhabitants  by  his  generosity  and  wisdom 
that  when  Ancus,  the  reigning  King,  died,  they  chose 
Lucumo  to  replace  him.  The  new  King  did  much  to 
embellish  and  fortify  the  city,  and  Tanaquil,  while  shar- 
ing his  state  and  councils,  became  the  model  of  all  Roman 
matrons,  spinning  and  weaving  the  wool  for  the  garments 
of  her  family,  and  clinging  in  all  her  ways  to  the  old  sim- 
ple, frugal  ideals;  her  distaff  and  spindle,  and  her  woollen 
girdle,  were  preserved  for  many  centuries,  and  ranked  in 
importance  with  the  "  palladium  "  and  other  venerated 
insignia  of  Rome's  power. 

One  day,  as  she  was  crossing  the  court  of  the  palace, 
the  Queen  saw  some  of  her  servants  gathered  in  a  group, 
staring  at  some  object  on  the  steps  leading  into  the  atrium. 
On  approaching  she  beheld  a  young  boy  of  great  beauty 
—  Servius  Tullius  by  name  —  whom  she  had  taken  into 
her  service,  lying  asleep  on  the  step,  while  a  crown  of 
lambent  flame  played  above  his  unconscious  head.  The 
servants  were  terrified,  but  Tanaquil,  versed  in  all  the 
Etrurian  lore  of  omen,  at  once  perceived  that  he  was  to 
be  a  favourite  of  the  gods.  She  told  her  husband  that 

90 


A  CHURCH  PILGRIMAGE 

the  boy  was  destined  to  great  glory,  and  Lucumo,  ever 
heedful  of  her  wise  counsels,  henceforth  treated  him  as 
a  son  and  educated  him  with  the  greatest  care. 

Lucumo,  whom  the  Romans  by  this  time  called  Lucius, 
had  sons  of  his  own,  but  the  succession,  still  purely 
elective,  was  coveted  by  the  two  sons  of  his  predecessor 
Ancus.  Filled  with  jealousy  of  the  young  Servius,  whose 
election  as  his  own  successor  they  feared  that  Lucius 
would  procure,  they  laid  a  trap  for  the  latter  by  re- 
questing a  private  audience  with  him.  When  they  found 
themselves  alone  with  the  King,  now  an  aged  man  — 
he  had  reigned  forty  years  —  they  basely  murdered  him 
and  rushed  out  into  the  city  to  tell  the  people  he  had 
died  suddenly,  and  to  sway  the  populace  to  make  them 
Kings  in  his  place. 

But  so  great  was  the  mourning  for  good  King  Lucius 
when  his  death  was  announced,  that  the  people  gave  them- 
selves up  to  their  grief  and  put  the  matter  of  the  election 
aside.  And  Tanaquil,  the  wise  woman,  caused  it  to  be 
proclaimed,  in  an  hour  or  two,  that  Lucius  was  merely 
stunned  and  not  dead  at  all,  and  that  until  his  recovery 
should  be  complete  he  desired  that  Servius  should  fill 
his  place.  Great  was  the  rejoicing  in  Rome,  and  with 
much  alacrity  the  people  put  themselves  under  the  or- 
ders of  the  young  Servius,  who  himself  in  all  things 
obeyed  the  noble  Tanaquil.  So,  for  many  days,  the  gov- 
ernment was  carried  on,  and  when  the  people  had  become 
accustomed  to  regarding  Servius  as  their  ruler,  Tana- 
quil told  them  that  her  beloved  husband  had  at  last  suc- 
cumbed to  his  wounds,  and  that  Servius  Tullius  would 
in  all  things  follow  his  good  example  if  they  would  elect 
him  as  King. 

This  they  gladly  did,  and  he  reigned  over  them  in 

91 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

peace  and  honour  for  many  years ;  but,  alas !  the  bright 
portent  of  his  youth  no  longer  hovered  over  his  destiny, 
and  dark  days  were  at  hand  for  him  and  for  Rome.  He 
had  two  daughters,  both  called  Tullia  —  the  elder  good 
and  pure  as  Tanaquil,  who  had  now  passed  away,  and 
the  younger  with  a  heart  full  of  evil  and  cruelty.  These 
two  girls  their  father  had  given  in  marriage  to  the  two 
sons  of  his  benefactor  Lucius,  in  hope  of  securing  peace 
to  the  kingdom  by  thus  uniting  the  families.  The  two 
sons  of  Lucius  presented  the  same  violent  contrasts  of 
character  as  the  daughters  of  Servius;  one  was  a  sinner, 
the  other  a  saint;  and  marriage  mismated  them,  giving 
the  elder  Tullia  to  proud,  wicked  Lucius  Tarquinius,  and 
her  black-hearted  younger  sister  to  the  good  Aruns.  The 
consequences  were  soon  all  too  apparent.  Lucius  fell  in 
love  with  his  brother's  wife;  she  responded  to  his  pas- 
sion; they  two  conspired  to  murder  their  lawful  spouses, 
carried  out  their  bloodthirsty  plot,  and  then  turned  their 
attention  to  the  removal  of  the  aged  Servius  from  their 
path  to  the  throne. 

Servius,  sprung  from  the  people,  had  made  many  ene- 
mies among  the  nobles  by  restraining  their  oppressions, 
and  by  championing  the  poorer  classes,  and  the  wicked 
Lucius  found  no  difficulty  in  drawing  discontented  men 
into  a  plot  to  kill  the  King.  They  waited  craftily  till 
the  height  of  the  harvest  season,  when  the  able-bodied 
workingmen  were  all  busy  in  the  fields  outside  the  city; 
then,  gathering  in  force  in  the  Forum,  they  installed 
Lucius  in  the  seat  from  which  Servius  was  accustomed 
to  judge  the  causes  that  were  brought  before  him. 
Servius  was  at  once  warned  of  that  which  was  taking 
place,  and  hurried  on  foot  from  the  royal  residence  on 
the  so-called  Cispian  Hill;  in  haste  to  reach  the  Forum 

92 


A  CHURCH  PILGRIMAGE 

and  quell  the  insurrection,  he  took  the  short-cut  through 
what  is  now  the  Via  Urbana.  At  the  end  of  this  street 
he  was  met  by  a  band  of  assassins  who  hewed  him  down 
and  left  him  in  his  blood,  lying  right  across  the  road. 

Meanwhile  his  daughter  Tullia  had  left  her  own  home 
(now  marked  by  the  Church  of  St.  Peter  of  the  Chains) 
and  bade  her  charioteer  drive  at  full  speed  to  her  fa- 
ther's house,  of  which  it  was  arranged  that  she  should 
take  possession  while  the  slayers  were  despatching  him. 
On  reaching  the  Via  Urbana  the  driver,  aghast,  pulled 
up  his  horses. 

11  We  can  go  no  further  on  this  road,  Lady!  "  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  body  of  the  murdered  King. 

"  Drive  on !  "  she  commanded. 

"  I  cannot  —  without  crushing  the  King's  body,"  he 
protested. 

"  Drive  on !  "  she  cried,  frantic  to  reach  her  goal,  and 
the  trembling  man  obeyed.  The  wheels  bit  deep  into  the 
yet  warm  flesh,  and  dripped  and  spattered  her  father's 
blood  all  along  the  road  which  the  daughter  followed  to 
reach  the  stolen  throne.  And  from  that  day  on  through 
all  the  ages  the  thoroughfare  was  called  the  Vico  Scelle- 
rato  —  the  atrocious  road ! 

Tullia's  son  grew  up  to  be  "  False  Sextus,"  whose 
crime  forced  chaste  Lucrece  to  take  her  own  life.  Then 
the  people  rose  against  the  tyrants  and  drove  them  out, 
to  die  despised  and  in  exile  and  never  another  u  King  " 
ruled  in  Rome  till  it  opened  its  dishonoured  gates  to  Victor 
Emmanuel  in  1870. 


93 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

People  and  Scenes  of  the  Corso — The  Collegio  Romano— Cardinal  Merry 
del  Val — Church  of  the  Trinita  dei  Monti — A  Picture  of  the  Em- 
peror Theodosius  and  His  Son — The  Other  Boy  Emperor,  Gratian — 
The  Usurper,  Maximus — Nobility  of  Gratian — Finally  Overcome  by 
Treachery — Saint  Ambrose — Fifth  Day  at  St.  Peter  of  the  Chains — 
Two  Christian  Empresses — The  Miracle  of  the  Chains — High  Mass 
at  San  Pietro — Latter  Days  of  the  Pilgrimage — View  from  Janiculum 
Hill — Michelangelo  and  Vasari — Michelangelo's  "  Visiting  Card." 

THE  second  day  of  July,  if  we  follow  out  our  pro- 
posed seven  days'  pilgrimage,  brings  us  to  a  spot 
in  the  Corso  which  so  hums  and  stirs  with  modern  life 
that  it  is  difficult  for  the  imagination  to  connect  it  with 
antiquity  at  all.  Not  that  the  Corso  itself  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  modern  street  by  any  means.  Narrow  and  any- 
thing but  straight,  with  great  palaces  and  mean  buildings 
crowding  promiscuously  and  set  as  close  together  as  pos- 
sible —  princely  houses  flanked  by  humble  shops  —  with 
cross  streets  debouching  into  it  every  few  hundred  yards, 
and  pouring  forth  a  stream  of  traffic,  spreading  away 
here  and  there  as  if  pushed  out  by  main  force,  but  yield- 
ing as  little  as  possible  of  the  coveted  sidewalks,  it  is 
the  real  artery  of  Rome,  pulsing  with  the  life  of  a  people 
who,  from  the  days  of  Julius  Caesar  to  our  own,  have 
carried  on  existence  in  the  open  air.  There  the  lawyers 
discuss  their  cases,  the  politicians  air  their  opinions;  the 
young  men,  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  a-fternoon,  stand 
in  long  lines,  like  troops  on  guard,  on  the  outer  edge 
of  the  sidewalk,  to  ogle  and  criticise  the  women  who  roll 

94 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

by  in  their  carriages  trying  to  look  unconscious  of  the 
enfilade.  But  the  morning  is  the  Corso's  real  prime,  a 
midday  of  spring  for  choice,  when,  from  a  cloudless  sky, 
the  sun  in  his  zenith  rakes  the  long  street  from  the  Piazza 
di  Venezia  to  the  Popolo  without  leaving  so  much  as 
an  inch  of  shade  as  a  refuge  from  his  fierce  rays,  ex- 
cept where  the  shop-awnings  extend  a  merciful  protection 
to  foot-passengers.  The  flower  vendors  are  everywhere, 
offering  whole  baskets  of  lilacs  —  the  fat  Roman  lilacs  — 
carnations,  and  roses  for  a  franc  or  two,  and  eagerly 
offering  to  carry  the  burden  home  for  one  on  the  spot. 
The  great  ladies,  who  would  rather  die  than  be  seen  in 
the  Corso  on  foot  in  the  afternoon,  are  racing  about  in 
twos  and  threes,  dressed  as  simply  as  possible,  it  is  true, 
but  with  the  huge  diamond  earrings,  from  which  they 
never  part,  focussing  the  sunbeams,  while  their  high- 
voiced,  intimate  chatter  and  proud  faces  express  their 
complete  contempt  for  and  ignoring  of  any  human  being 
outside  their  own  aristocratic  circle.  This  is  the  golden 
hour  for  the  dressmakers  and  milliners  and  jewellers, 
and  their  faces  are  wreathed  in  smiles  as  they  fly  about 
to  satisfy  the  wealthy  customers  who  make  the  morning 
their  own.  Few  foreigners  are  seen;  they  haunt  the 
Piazza  di  Spagna  and  the  Via  Condotti,  the  street  of 
the  jewellers,  who  work  solely  for  them  in  Etruscan  gold 
and  cameos  and  mosaics,  ornaments  which  no  Roman 
would  ever  think  of  buying  or  wearing,  though  they  are 
far  more  artistic  than  the  Frenchified  tiaras  and  rivieres 
to  be  seen  on  the  Corso. 

A  few  minutes  before  noon  the  crowd  thickens  there 
near  the  Collegio  Romano  till  it  is  hard  to  make  one's 
way  through  it;  the  buzz  of  talk  ceases,  men  get  out 
their  watches,  and  hold  them  in  their  hands  while  all 

95 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

eyes  are  turned  upward  as  if  expecting  the  advent  of  some 
celestial  apparition.  Silence  reigns  for  a  minute  or  two; 
then  it  is  rent  by  the  thunderous  boom  of  the  midday  gun 
at  Sant'  Angelo,  and  the  next  instant  a  babel  of  deafening 
sound  has  broken  over  the  city.  Every  Church  bell  in 
Rome  is  ringing  madly.  The  crowd  cries  "  Mezzo 
Giorno !  "  with  one  voice,  the  black  cone  has  run  up  on 
the  flagstaff  of  the  College  observatory,  and  the  watches 
have  been  returned  to  their  owners'  pockets.  There  is 
a  kind  of  stampede  to  homes  and  restaurants  for  the  mid- 
day meal,  unless  it  is  checked  by  the  appearance  of  a 
squadron  of  dragoons  clattering  down  the  street  like 
mounted  suns,  their  helmets  and  breastplates  shining  in- 
tolerably bright,  their  big  black  horses  pretending  to  paw 
and  chafe  in  tune  with  the  military  band  that  follows 
them  and  which  is  filling  the  air  with  the  joyous  strains 
of  a  popular  march  that  tries  to  outdo  the  pealing  of  the 
bells.  Beside  and  behind  the  band  comes  every  ragamuffin 
in  Rome,  marching  delightedly,  head  in  air,  mouth  open, 
and  roaring  out  the  tune;  hunger  and  rags  are  forgotten 
for  the  moment  and  every  beggar  boy  feels  like  a  vic- 
torious general  attending  his  own  triumph. 

Now  the  doors  of  the  Collegio  have  opened  to  let  out 
another  great  stream  to  join  the  throng  —  students  of 
all  classes  and  nationalities  pour  into  the  street.  On 
certain  days  those  of  the  Collegio  di  Propaganda  Fide 
may  be  seen  hurrying  across  the  town  to  take  their  ex- 
ercise in  the  suburbs.  Here  come  Greeks  and  Copts, 
Bengalis  and  Chinese,  crossing  similar  processions  of 
fair-haired  English  and  Germans,  the  latter  picturesquely 
notable  as  they  stride  along,  two  by  two,  some  forty  of 
them  perhaps,  in  the  vivid  scarlet  cassock  and  hat  which 
Gregory  XVI  imposed  upon  them  to  cure  them  of  slip- 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

ping  unnoticed  into  a  "  birreria  "  for  a  glass  of  their 
national  beverage,  and  which  costume  has  caused  the 
Romans  to  give  them  the  nickname  of  "  Gamberi  " — 
Lobsters!  They  make  a  great  contrast  to  the  English- 
speaking  students,  Scotch,  Irish,  American,  and  English 
proper,  who  wear  sombre  black  or  dark  purple;  but  the 
form  of  the  uniform  is  always  the  same,  a  long  cassock 
with  St.  Ignatius'  streamers  reaching  to  the  hem  and  fly- 
ing from  the  shoulders  at  every  touch  of  wind,  every 
movement  of  the  muscular  young  bodies.  The  whole  is 
crowned  by  a  wide,  three-cornered  hat,  from  under  which 
the  boyish  faces  look  out  roguishly  enough  on  what  the 
owners  evidently  consider  a  mighty  pleasant  world. 

A  young  priest  who  lately  returned  from  studying  for 
three  years  at  the  American  College  in  Rome,  was  tell- 
ing me  the  other  day  what  delightful  recollections  he 
had  brought  away  with  him,  of  the  cheery  home-like  at- 
mosphere of  the  college  —  of  the  wisdom  and  kindness 
of  the  Superior  and  his  aides,  and  of  all  the  merry  larks 
that  the  American  boys  indulged  in  when  study  hours 
were  over.  A  frequent  visitor  there  was  Cardinal  Merry 
del  Val,  the  most  boyish-hearted  of  ecclesiastics;  he  took 
the  greatest  interest  in  their  baseball  contests,  which  he 
used  to  watch  closely  to  learn  the  rules  of  the  game. 

The  Cardinal's  father  was  the  Spanish  ambassador  to 
the  Pope  for  many  years,  and  the  Countess  was  a  friend 
of  my  own  dear  mother,  who  admired  her  enthusiastic- 
ally. She  was  a  highly  cultivated  and  most  holy  woman, 
combining  all  the  dignity  of  the  old-time  great  lady  with 
the  gentle  urbanity  of  a  Religious;  indeed,  when  she  and 
her  young  daughters  entered  a  room  they  seemed  to  bring 
with  them  that  ineffable  convent  fragrance,  sweet  as  the 
message  of  hidden  violets,  which  one  scarcely  looks  to 

97 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

meet  in  the  outside  world.  Their  home  was  in  the  Span- 
ish palace,  from  which  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  takes  its 
name,  standing  just  opposite  the  splendid  sweep  of  the 
"  Spanish  Steps,"  which  mount  in  broad  gradations  to 
their  crown,  the  towering  Church  of  che  Trinita  dei 
Monti. 

But  I  was  talking  of  a  warm  spring  morning,  and 
that  ascent  should  be  made  in  the  cooler  hours.  It  is 
pleasanter  just  now  to  linger  under  some  awning  near 
the  end  of  the  Corso,  and,  looking  down  across  the  sun- 
smitten  expanse  of  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  to  the  gate  of 
that  name,  to  muse  on  the  processions  which  have  passed 
through  that  northern  portal  of  the  city.  There  is  one 
picture  that  returns  oftener  than  others  to  my  mind  when 
I  look  at  it,  the  picture  of  Theodosius,  the  great  Emperor, 
entering  the  city  in  state,  with  his  little  son,  Honorius, 
on  his  knee,  and  his  co-emperor,  the  younger  Valentinian, 
by  his  side.  Rome,  like  some  aged  and  neglected  parent, 
was  seldom  visited  by  her  Emperors  in  those  days;  their 
headquarters  were  fixed  where  great  events  were  stir- 
ring —  in  Constantinople,  in  Ravenna,  in  Milan,  or 
Treves.  So  the  i3th  of  June,  309  A.D.,  marked  an  event 
long  remembered  by  the  Romans,  the  hour  when  they 
looked  upon  their  rulers'  faces  for  the  first  time.  There 
was  but  one  real  ruler  just  then,  however;  his  younger 
colleague  and  his  little  son  were  merely  being  trained  to 
take  their  places  when  he  should  be  no  more.  The  cheer- 
ing crowds  were  carried  away  by  the  sight  of  the  princely 
child,  as  crowds  always  are,  but  some  of  the  more  thought- 
ful must  have  gazed  —  not  too  confidently  —  on  the  face 
of  Theodosius,  the  strong,  dark,  capable  Spaniard,  so 
just  and  merciful  in  his  calm  moments,  so  violent  in  his 
angry  ones  that  only  his  beloved  adopted  daughter, 

98 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

Serena,  dared  approach  him  then.  And,  whether  calm 
or  angry,  there  was  one  memory  that  seems  never  to 
have  left  him,  the  memory  of  his  brave,  loyal  soldier 
father,  ignominiously  put  to  death  by  the  Roman  Em- 
peror whom  he  had  faithfully  served  —  on  a  charge  so 
futile  that  it  was  not  even  mentioned  in  the  order  for 
his  execution. 

Yet,  remembering,  he  forgave,  and  did  all  in  his  power 
to  protect  and  help  the  Romans.  His  son  grew  up,  alas ! 
a  mere  shadow  of  a  man,  too  weak  and  indolent  even 
to  be  wicked,  his  short  life  a  strange  contrast  to  an- 
other, cut  off  in  the  flush  of  youth  the  year  before  he 
was  born.  Even  with  a  son  of  his  own  to  follow  him, 
we  know  Theodosius  never  ceased  to  mourn  the  untimely 
death  of  Gratian,  "  the  graceful,"  "  the  gracious," 
"  the  gratitude  inspiring,"  as  the  orator  Themistius  calls 
him. 

We  have  indeed  one  beautiful  picture  of  Honorius, 
when  still  but  a  youth  he  entered  Rome  again,  and  again 
heard  the  Roman  shouts  as  he  passed  on  to  the  Pala- 
tine, standing  in  his  gilded  chariot,  the  sun  resting  on 
his  dark  head  and  playing  radiantly  on  the  great  neck- 
laces of  emeralds  that  rose  and  fell  in  response  to  the 
joyful  beatings  of  a  heart  still  very  young,  still  responsive 
at  times  to  noble  impulses,  the  people  cheering  him  madly, 
and  the  women  weeping  for  joy  at  the  sight  of  his  beauty. 
After  that,  all  is  darkness;  his  intellect,  such  as  it  was, 
was  devoted  to  the  most  futile  of  pursuits  —  the  raising 
of  prize  poultry!  It  was  but  a  few  years  later  that,  on 
being  told  that  "  Rome  had  perished,"  he  cried  out  in 
dismay,  "What,  my  beautiful  fowl?"  And  on  being 
told  that  it  was  the  Mother  of  cities,  the  Heart  of  the 
Empire,  which  had  succumbed  to  Alaric,  the  Goth  in- 

99 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

vader,  he  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  exclaiming,  "  I  thought 
you  meant  my  bird  was  dead !  " 

Far  different  was  the  character  of  the  other  boy- 
Emperor,  Gratian,  the  son  of  Valentinian. 

There  is  something  wonderfully  appealing  as  well  as 
pathetic  in  the  story  of  this  pure  and  high-hearted  youth 
into  whose  twenty-five  years  of  life  there  entered  every 
element  of  the  fierce  mental  and  material  conflicts  that 
convulsed  the  world  in  the  fourth  century  of  our  era, 
the  century  when  Imperial  children  were  used  as  shields 
and  standards  for  the  conflicting  parties  and  were  called 
upon  to  exercise  the  powers  of  government  almost  before 
they  had  learnt  to  read.  Valentinian,  bent,  like  those  be- 
fore and  after  him,  on  converting  an  elective  sovereignty 
into  an  hereditary  one,  resolved  on  taking  his  son  into 
partnership  on  the  throne  while  Gratian  was,  by  most 
accounts,  only  eight  years  old.  As  usual,  the  question 
would  be  decided  by  the  army,  or  that  portion  of  it  near- 
est at  hand,  and  Valentinian,  having  insinuated  the  idea 
into  his  soldiers'  minds,  found  that  they  were  not  averse 
to  it.  Any  such  proceeding  was  sure  to  be  welcome  to 
them,  since  it  was  certain  to  be  accompanied  by  the  large 
donatives  of  money  for  the  sake  of  which  the  Purple  was 
so  constantly  changing  wearers  in  those  times. 

Valentinian  was  at  Amiens,  and  the  troops,  having 
been  called  together  in  the  plain  before  the  city,  he  pre- 
sented the  boy  to  them  in  a  harangue  full  of  spirit,  re- 
minding them  that  Gratian,  from  his  birth,  had  played 
with  their  children,  grown  up  with  their  own  sons,  and 
promising  that  he  should  be  a  worthy  leader  of  such 
noble  company.  The  bright,  fearless  child  stood  up  be- 
side his  father  on  the  tribunal,  and  the  soldiers,  forgetting 
ulterior  motives,  hailed  him  with  real  enthusiasm,  shout- 

100 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

ing,  "  Gratiane  Auguste!  Gratiane  Auguste!"  with  all 
their  heart.  There  was  a  great  burst  of  trumpets  and 
clash  of  arms,  and  then  Valentinian  spoke  to  the  boy,  so 
that  all  could  hear  him.  It  is  a  fine  speech,  the  speech 
of  a  soldier,  and  short,  as  soldiers'  speeches  should  be: 
'  Thou  hast  now,  my  Gratian,  by  my  decision  and  that 
of  my  brave  comrades,  been  invested  with  the  Imperial 
robes.  Begin  to  strengthen  thy  soul  to  bear  their  weight. 
Prepare  to  cross  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine,  to  stand  firm 
in  battle  with  these  thy  warrior  friends,  to  shed  thy  blood 
and  give  up  thy  life  itself  for  the  defence  of  thy  sub- 
jects, to  think  nothing  too  great  or  too  little  by  which 
thou  canst  preserve  the  safety  of  the  Empire.  This  is  all 
I  will  say  to  thee  now,  but  the  rest  shall  be  told  thee 
when  thou  art  mature  enough  to  comprehend  it."  Then, 
turning  to  the  troops,  he  ended  by  saying:  "  To  you,  my 
brave  soldiers,  I  commit  the  boy  —  with  the  prayer  that 
your  love  may  guard  him,  your  arms  defend  him,  all 
his  life!" 

Valentinian's  next  care  was  to  provide  Gratian  with 
wise  tutors,  and  surely  few  youths  were  ever  more  fa- 
voured in  that  respect.  The  tie  between  him  and  St. 
Ambrose  was  as  strong  and  tender  a  one  as  history  has 
ever  presented  to  our  admiration.  Gratian,  in  every  cir- 
cumstance of  his  short  and  stormy  life,  turns  to  the  great 
Bishop  for  support  and  counsel.  Ambrose  never  seems 
to  have  the  young  ruler  out  of  his  thoughts;  the  Saint's 
outburst  of  sorrow  at  his  death  is  the  cry  of  a  broken 
heart.  It  all  forms  a  chapter  of  most  unusual  beauty  in 
the  story  of  mankind. 

Hardly  less  attractive  is  Gratian's  affection  for  his 
other  tutor,  Ausonius,  whom,  even  in  the  urgency  of 
affairs  and  the  stress  of  war,  he  never  forgets,  taking 

101 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

time  to  send  him  a  letter  or  a  gift,  remembering  even  the 
poet's  harmless  weaknesses,  and  making  a  long  journey 
so  as  to  assist  in  person  at  the  investiture  with  the  Con- 
sulship, which  Gratian  had  bestowed  upon  him,  thus  crown- 
ing the  highest  ambition  of  the  good  man's  heart.  Yet, 
what  a  contrast  the  two  teachers  present!  Ambrose, 
the  "  golden-mouthed  "  indeed,  but  inflexible,  the  uncon- 
querable fighter  for  the  independence  of  the  Church,  the 
judge  of  his  Emperor  Theodosius,  whom  he  punishes 
—  during  eight  long  months  —  for  the  Thessalonian 
massacre,  by  forbidding  him  to  enter  the  sanctuary  till 
he  has  repented  of  his  cruelty  publicly  in  dust  and  ashes 
before  its  threshold  —  and  Ausonius,  the  "  tranquil  and 
indulgent  man,  mild  of  voice  and  eye,"  rejoicing  in  the 
beauties  of  his  lovely  home  by  the  Moselle,  bringing  the 
exquisite  freshness  of  a  summer  morning  before  us  as 
few  others  have  done,  his  sincere  Christianity  all  warmed 
and  illumined  by  his  born  kinship  with  Nature  and  his 
gratitude  to  the  Creator;  yet  so  human  in  his  fluttering 
delight  at  Gratian's  favours,  his  innocent  triumph  when 
the  young  Emperor  not  only  associates  him  with  himself 
in  the  Consulship,  but  sends  him  the  very  purple  robe 
embroidered  with  palm  branches  which  the  great  Con- 
stantine  had  worn  on  the  same  occasion. 

It  is  difficult  to  understand  how  the  grandson  of 
"  Gratian  the  rope-maker  " —  that  rough  country  lad  who 
wandered  into  the  Roman  camp  at  Cibalae  in  Pannonia 
to  sell  his  wares,  and  so  pleased  the  soldiers  by  his 
strength  and  audacity  that  they  kept  him  with  them  — 
should  have  come  to  be  the  very  model  and  ideal  of  a 
gentle  knight,  both  in  heart  and  person.  He  seems  far 
more  nearly  allied  to  the  noble  Constantine,  of  whom 
he  speaks  indeed  as  a  parent,  but  only  on  the  ground  of 

102 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

having  married  his  granddaughter  Constantia.  It  was 
an  age  when  the  unending  ramifications  of  the  various  Im- 
perial families  furnished  more  occupants  for  thrones  than 
there  were  thrones  to  occupy,  and  in  which  a  successful 
claimant  could  almost  always  find  a  royal  bride  with  whose 
name  to  strengthen  his  own  hold  on  power.  Add  to  this 
multiplicity  of  true  heirs  the  numberless  usurpers  who 
struck  but  for  themselves,  or  those  whom  the  different 
Legions  raised  to  the  purple  for  their  own  ends  ("  bar- 
rack Emperors  "  as  our  own  great  historian,  Thomas 
Hodgkin,  called  them),  and  you  have  such  a  bewildering 
crowd  of  Emperors  and  sham  Emperors,  of  usurpers  and 
rival  usurpers,  that  one  can  scarcely  remember  their 
names,  and  their  histories  only  awake  a  passing  thrill  of 
pity  for  the  violent  ends  to  which  most  of  them  came. 

One  of  the  usurpers  indeed  (Magnentius  by  name) 
left  an  important,  if  disturbing,  legacy  to  the  world  in 
the  person  of  his  widow  Justina,  a  beautiful  but  not  over- 
wise  Sicilian  woman  whom  his  conqueror,  Valentinian, 
already  the  father  of  Gratian,  took  to  wife.  The  story 
of  her  triumphs  and  misfortunes,  of  the  obstinate  cham- 
pionship of  the  Arian  heresy  which  brought  her  into  such 
a  series  of  battles  with  St.  Ambrose,  would  fill  volumes, 
and  one  gathers  that  she  was  a  great  thorn  in  the  side 
of  her  stepson  Gratian,  who,  while  obliged  to  restrain 
her  as  far  as  possible,  nevertheless  treated  her  with  un- 
varying kindness  and  deference.  One  of  the  most  touch- 
ing incidents  in  the  life  of  the  boy  Emperor  is  the  fear 
and  depression  expressed  in  the  letter  in  which  he  be- 
seeches St.  Ambrose  to  send  him  some  good  book  from 
which  he  can  draw  faith  and  courage  in  the  struggle 
lying  before  him,  the  subjugation  of  the  Goths,  who  had 
rebelled  against  his  Arian  uncle,  Valens,  still  the  reign- 

103 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

ing  Emperor  in  the  East.  St.  Ambrose  responds  by  writ- 
ing and  sending  his  treatise  "  Of  Faith,"  and  from  that 
time  forth  it  is  said  that  Gratian  carried  the  little  book 
about  with  him,  studying  it  even  in  his  chariot  when  on 
his  travels. 

These  were  never-ending,  his  vigilance  driving  him 
hither  and  thither,  to  settle  disputes,  subdue  rebellions, 
to  pacify  his  still  barbarous  allies  or  correct  the  misde- 
meanours of  iniquitous  governors  of  provinces.  His  ac- 
tual reign  only  lasted  seven  or  eight  years,  but  very  little 
even  of  that  time  can  have  been  passed  at  the  nominal 
seat  of  government,  Augusta  Treverorum,  the  modern 
Treves,  at  that  time  the  finest  and  best  fortified  city  in 
the  Empire,  and  showing,  even  now,  magnificent  blocks 
of  fortress  long  put  to  base  uses,  but  in  these  days 
restored  to  the  original  ones  by  the  energetic  militarism 
of  Prussia. 

If  Gratian  was  fortunate  in  having  the  holy  Ambrose 
and  the  wise  Ausonius  to  instruct  him  in  the  Faith  and 
in  the  humanities,  he  was  hardly  less  so  in  the  military 
adviser  who  taught  him  the  arts  of  war.  The  old 
Frankish  general,  Merobaudes,  is  one  of  the  people  I 
always  feel  I  should  have  liked  to  know.  He  was  as 
loyal  as  he  was  valiant  and  experienced,  and  the  young 
Emperor  reposed  implicit  and  well-merited  trust  in  him. 
But  even  his  craft  and  courage  could  not  save  Gratian 
from  falling  a  victim  to  treachery  at  last. 

In  spite  of  his  elevated  and  attractive  character,  his 
prudence,  his  zeal,  his  clemency,  there  were  two  parties 
in  the  Empire  of  whom  one  remained  and  the  other  be- 
came irreconcilable  to  Gratian's  policy.  The  first,  though 
not  the  most  powerful,  consisted  of  the  large  number  of 
Senators  and  nobles  in  Rome  who  adhered  to  the  old 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

pagan  worship  with  the  tenacity  of  despair.  It  had  never 
been  proscribed,  but  its  outward  ceremonies  were  discour- 
aged when  they  were  not  actually  forbidden;  idols  had 
been  removed  from  the  public  places  where  it  was  cus- 
tomary to  burn  incense  before  them,  and  in  some  in- 
stances revenues  pertaining  to  the  discredited  faith  had 
been  diverted  to  other  uses.  The  partisans  of  paganism, 
counting  on  Gratian's  youth  and  inexperience,  made  re- 
peated efforts  to  obtain  from  him  some  official  recogni- 
tion of  the  ancient  religion,  particularly  in  the  matter 
of  replacing  the  Altar  of  Victory,  which  Constantius,  a 
zealous  though  Arian  Christian,  had  removed  from  the 
Senate  hall  in  the  Capitol  where  it  had  stood  for  four 
hundred  years.  They  also  attempted  to  persuade  him 
to  take  on  the  state  and  robes  of  "  Pontifex  Maximus," 
the  head  and  high  priest  of  the  cult  of  the  Olympian 
deities.  Some  of  Gratian's  immediate  predecessors  had 
been  either  indulgent  or  indifferent  about  such  matters, 
and  had  now  and  then  yielded  a  point  to  the  old  tradi- 
tions, but  the  young  and  ardent  Gratian  looked  upon  these 
weaknesses  with  horror  and  met  such  demands  with 
stern  and  uncompromising  denial.  When  the  hierophants 
who  had  besought  him  to  assume  the  robe  of  the  chief 
of  their  order  withdrew,  in  sullen  mortification,  from  the 
audience,  their  leader  uttered  a  prediction  which  proved 
to  be  a  threat:  "  The  Emperor  may  refuse  this  honour, 
but  in  spite  of  him  there  will  soon  be  another  Pontifex 
Maximus."  This  was  later  construed  into  a  prophecy, 
pointing  to  the  usurper  Maximus  who,  for  the  sorrow 
of  the  Empire,  snatched  the  purple  and  held  it  for  a 
while  after  Gratian's  death. 

This  Maximus,  a  Spaniard  of  low  extraction,  was  both 
the  mouthpiece  and  the  tool  of  the  other  and  far  more 

105 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

powerful  party  in  the  Empire  which  had  some  show  of 
reason  for  being  discontented  with  Gratian's  rule,  the 
Roman  Legionaries  whose  jealousy  was  aroused  by  his 
frank  preference  for  his  Gothic  and  Teutonic  fighting 
men.  The  preference  was  fully  justified;  the  "  Barbari- 
ans," as  the  Romans  still  affected  to  call  them,  were 
brave,  clean-living  loyal  soldiers,  great  fair-haired  fellows 
rejoicing  in  feats  of  strength  and  in  the  display  of  rich 
ornaments  on  their  handsome  persons;  they  were  far 
more  sympathetic  to  Gratian  than  the  decadent  Romans, 
many  of  whom,  as  Hodgkin  points  out,  were  themselves 
the  effeminate  descendants  of  quite  recently  Romanised 
aliens.  The  parvenu  is  always  the  most  zealous  defender 
of  the  privileges  of  the  class  to  which  he  has  been  un- 
deservedly promoted;  they  made  no  secret  of  their 
discontent  when  the  Emperor  chose  some  big,  genial 
Alani  for  his  bodyguard  and  for  many  positions  of  hon- 
our and  sent  a  couple  of  Roman  Legions  to  improve  their 
health  and  mend  their  ways  in  the  sad  isle  of  Britain. 

It  is  amusing  to  read  the  wailing  complaints  of  the 
exiled  sybarites,  condemned  to  what  they  considered  a 
kind  of  convict  station  and  quite  the  most  miserable  spot 
in  the  world.  What,  they,  the  flower  of  the  aristocracy 
and  the  army,  were  to  pass  their  precious  time  in  dreary 
solitudes  where  the  sun  never  shone,  where  grapes  did 
not  grow,  and  where  the  pay  of  an  officer  did  not  permit 
him  even  a  decent  glass  of  wine?  Live  under  grey  skies, 
on  a  soggy  island  cut  off  from  the  real  world  by  most 
uncomfortably  rough  seas  (the  Latin  is  a  wretched  sailor 
to  this  day),  where  there  was  no  music,  no  fun,  and 
scarcely  any  pretty  women  —  and,  for  their  sole  occupa- 
tion, to  have  to  keep  the  savage  inhabitants  from  extermi- 
nating one  another?  No,  it  was  not  to  be  borne !  And, 

106 


after  the  usual  time  had  passed  in  ever  more  angry  grum- 
bling, the  Legions  revolted,  deposed  the  absent  and  un- 
conscious Gratian,  and  named  Maximus  Emperor  in  his 
stead. 

Had  the  garrison  of  Great  Britain  alone  been  in  ques- 
tion, we  should  most  likely  never  have  heard  of  their 
mutiny,  but  that  was  unfortunately  not  the  case.  The 
jealousy  and  discontent  in  Gaul  and  other  portions  of 
the  realm  had  spread  and  smouldered  till  but  a  single 
touch  was  needed  to  make  it  burst  out  in  a  blaze.  That 
was  applied  by  Maximus,  who  now,  with  a  large  body  of 
troops,  abandoned  Britain  and  appeared  in  Gaul  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Rhine.  Gratian,  who  had  been  subduing 
some  hostile  tribes,  hastened  back  to  his  camp  to  find  that 
a  large  proportion  of  his  men  had  deserted  him  to  join 
his  rival.  He  could  still  count,  however,  on  sufficient 
numbers  to  give  him  hopes  of  success,  and  one  is  glad 
to  read  that  the  good  veteran  Merobaudes  was  with  him 
and  that  another  brave  captain,  one  Vallio,  clung  to  him 
loyally  in  this  great  emergency.  They  found  Maximus 
encamped  near  Paris,  but  all  their  efforts  failed  to  draw 
him  to  do  battle.  The  crafty  adventurer  kept  the  com- 
manders busy  with  feints  of  attack  and  cleverly  planned 
skirmishes,  and  utilised  the  time  thus  gained  to  draw  the 
Emperor's  men  to  desert,  by  lavish  bribes  and  promises. 
At  the  end  of  a  few  days  Gratian,  who  had  no  money 
wherewith  to  buy  fidelity,  found  himself  forsaken  by  all 
but  his  two  old  friends  and  some  three  hundred  horse- 
men, and,  in  bitter  humiliation  and  anger,  turned  to  flee, 
hoping  to  reach  Milan,  the  first  point  where  he  would 
have  been  able  to  pause  in  safety.  The  journey  was  a 
terrible  one;  the  news  of  his  disaster  travelled  faster 
than  he  did,  every  door  was  closed  to  him,  and  he  could 

107 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

scarcely  procure  food  enough  to  sustain  life.  Meanwhile 
the  pursuers,  led  by  one  Andragathius,  his  bitterest  enemy, 
raced  at  his  heels,  and  every  day  that  passed  diminished 
his  chances  of  escape.  But  the  faith  and  courage  of  which 
he  had  given  so  many  proofs  before  did  not  leave  him 
now.  A  hunted  fugitive,  forsaken  and  starving,  he  never 
wavered  or  repined.  "  My  soul  waiteth  upon  God,"  he 
said.  "  My  foes  can  slay  my  body,  but  they  cannot 
quench  the  life  of  my  soul." 

He  was  taken  by  treachery  at  last.  As  he  drew  near 
the  city  of  Lyons,  he  perceived,  on  the  opposite  bank 
of  the  Rhone,  a  litter  hurrying  along  escorted  only  by  a 
few  servants.  Some  one  told  him  that  the  traveller  was 
Lasta,  the  beautiful  girl  he  had  just  married,  Constantia 
having  died  some  little  time  before.  He  insisted  on  cross- 
ing the  river  —  rushed  to  the  litter  —  and  was  instantly 
caught  in  the  arms  of  Andragathius,  triumphant  at  the 
success  of  the  snare  he  had  prepared.  Gratian  was  con- 
ducted, with  some  show  of  respect,  to  Lyons,  where,  with 
every  appearance  of  sincere  deference,  he  was  invited  to 
wear  the  Imperial  Purple  and  to  take  his  place  at  a  mag- 
nificent banquet.  He  was  not  wholly  deceived  by  these 
specious  attentions,  and  asked  his  entertainers  to  give 
their  oath  that  no  harm  was  intended.  This  they  did, 
most  solemnly;  Gratian,  incapable  of  believing  in  their 
deliberate  perjury,  consented  to  their  request,  and  a  few 
moments  later  fell,  stabbed  to  the  heart,  calling  on  Am- 
brose with  his  last  breath. 

The  great  Bishop  had  suffered  agonies  of  suspense 
about  his  beloved  pupil  from  the  moment  he  had  received 
the  news  of  his  discomfiture.  He  followed  him  in  spirit 
on  his  flight,  saw  in  mind  all  his  suffering  and  danger, 
and  was  utterly  broken-hearted  when  he  learnt  of  his 

108 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

cruel  and  untimely  death  at  the  hands  of  the  usurper 
Maximus.  But  the  bitterest  moment  in  the  Saint's  whole 
life  must  have  come,  when,  a  little  later,  Justina,  wild 
with  anxiety  as  to  the  fate  meditated  for  her  own  young 
son  Valentinian  (he  had  been  associated  with  Gratian  as 
Emperor,  dethroned  by  Maximus,  and  was  now  twelve 
years  old),  twice  prevailed  upon  him  to  travel  to  Treves 
and  intercede  with  the  murderer  for  the  boy's  life  and 
for  peace.  The  studied  insults  inflicted  upon  Ambrose 
by  Maximus  on  that  occasion  were  hard  to  bear,  but  we 
have  it  from  his  own  lips  that  the  internal  trial  of  hold- 
ing intercourse  with  the  slayer  of  his  beloved  pupil  was 
a  furnace  of  tribulation,  which  at  times  threatened  to 
overcome  every  consideration  of  policy  and  necessity,  and 
for  which  the  partial  success  of  his  missions  in  no  way 
consoled  him.  For  Maximus,  after  being  foiled  in  his 
attempts  to  get  possession  of  the  person  of  Valentinian, 
decided  that  he  had  gone  far  enough  in  extermination 
and,  being  firmly  seated  on  the  throne,  consented  to  let 
the  boy  appear  to  share  it  with  him  for  a  time.  Of  Gra- 
tian's  two  friends,  Merobaudes  and  Vallio  —  the  former, 
seeing  a  disgraceful  death  awaiting  him,  took  his  own 
life;  the  latter,  apparently  by  the  orders  of  Maximus, 
was  privately  hanged,  and  it  was  given  out  that  he  had 
killed  himself  in  this  cowardly  manner  because  he  —  the 
staunch  fighting  man  —  was  afraid  of  cold  steel!  The 
incident  reminds  one  of  the  recent  murder  of  the  French 
Freemason,  who,  on  his  conversion  to  Christianity,  be- 
came the  victim  of  a  similar  fate  and  a  similar  calumny, 
inflicted  by  former  associates.  Even  the  Devil  makes 
very  stupid  mistakes  sometimes. 

The  walk  down  the  Corso  has  indeed  taken  us  a  long 
way  from  our  starting-point,  the  Church  of  Sta.  Maria  in 

109 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Via  Lata,  where  over  the  now  subterranean  chapel  in 
which  the  Doctor  of  the  Gentiles  dictated  to  St.  Luke  the 
Acts  of  the  Apostles,  the  prelates  called  the  "  Auditors 
of  the  Rota  "  with  the  "  Master  of  the  Sacred  Palace  " 
(the  Vatican)  celebrated  the  fourth  day  of  the  Octave 
of  the  Feast  of  the  Apostles.  On  the  fifth  day,  in  pur- 
suance of  the  design  by  which  each  department  of  the 
hierarchy  should  in  its  turn  honour  the  Princes  of  the 
Faith,  the  Pope  said  Mass  at  the  Church  of  St.  Peter 
of  the  Chains,  assisted  by  the  ecclesiastical  body  known 
as  the  Clerks  of  the  Chamber.  "  San  Pietro  in  Vincoli  " 
stands  on  a  rather  lonely  part  of  the  Esquiline,  the  high- 
est of  the  Seven  Hills.  The  great  poet  of  the  Tenth 
Century,  Adam  of  St.  Victor,  the  author  of  some  of  our 
most  beautiful  hymns,  compares  the  Apostles  to  the 
Hills,  because  the  rising  sun  strikes  them  first  and  then 
reaches  the  regions  below.  On  the  spot  where  now  stands 
the  Church  of  St.  Peter's  Chains  there  was  originally, 
according  to  the  most  ancient  authorities,  St.  Jerome,  the 
Venerable  Bede,  and  others,  a  sanctuary  dedicated  by  St. 
Peter  himself  on  the  first  of  August,  in  order  to  conse- 
crate to  God  the  month  which  the  Romans  had  named 
after  Augustus  Caesar,  and  which  they  devoted  to  his 
worship.  Of  the  precious  chains  with  which  the  sanctu- 
ary was  destined  to  be  enriched,  those  which  had  fallen 
from  St.  Peter's  limbs  in  Herod's  prison  were  still  treas- 
ured by  the  Christians  in  Jerusalem;  the  others,  in  which 
he  was  to  be  led  out  to  martyrdom,  were  perhaps  not 
yet  forged,  for  he  was  still  a  free  man  when  he  came 
to  consecrate  the  Church  on  the  Hill  that  looks  to  the 
east,  and  to  fix  August  the  first  as  a  day  of  special  repara- 
tion to  the  Almighty  for  the  idolatry  which  that  month 
saw  the  Romans  lavish  on  a  dead  mortal. 

no 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

St.  Peter's  chapel  was  still  standing  and  attracted  many 
pilgrims  when,  some  four  hundred  years  after  its  erection, 
it  was  enclosed  and  incorporated  in  the  large  Church 
we  now  know,  called,  from  her  who  built  it,  the  Eudoxian 
Basilica.  The  name  brings  before  us  two  Christian  Em- 
presses, a  mother  and  daughter,  the  elder  the  wife  of 
Theodosius  II,  Emperor  of  the  East;  the  younger  mar- 
ried to  Valentinian  III,  Emperor  of  the  West.  The 
elder  Eudoxia  *  had  made  a  vow  to  go  on  pilgrimage  to 
Jerusalem,  and  when  she  visited  the  Holy  City,  the 
faithful  there  presented  to  her  the  Chains  of  St.  Peter, 
which  she  received  with  transports  of  gratitude,  holding 
them  more  precious  than  the  rarest  jewels.  Then,  hav- 
ing venerated  them  with  great  devotion,  she  sent  them 
as  a  gift  to  her  beloved  daughter  Eudoxia,  the  wife  of 
the  Emperor  of  the  West.  The  young  Empress  was  in 
Rome  at  the  time,  and  she  at  once  took  the  chains  to  the 
Pontiff,  St.  Leo  the  Great,  and  he,  to  her  joy  and  sur- 
prise, told  her  that  in  return  for  her  piety  he  would  show 
her  the  Chains  with  which  St.  Peter  had  been  loaded  in 
Rome.  Apparently  the  Empress  did  not  know  that  they 
had  been  preserved  and  venerated  there  ever  since  the  be- 
ginning of  the  Second  Century.  It  was  some  forty  years 
after  the  martyrdom  of  St.  Peter  that  the  reigning  Pope, 
St.  Alexander,  was  made  a  captive,  and  placed  under  the 
charge  of  the  Tribune  Quirinus,  the  governor  of  the 
Roman  prisons.  Quirinus  had  a  young  daughter  named 
Balbina,  who  was  miraculously  cured  of  a  great  sickness 
by  touching  the  chains  of  St.  Alexander.  As  she  knelt 
in  the  transports  of  her  joy,  she  could  not  cease  from 
kissing  and  weeping  over  the  blessed  chains,  and  Alex- 

*  She  is  often  called  "  Eudoscia,"  by  historians,  and  was   also  named 
"  Athenais,"  being  the  daughter  of  a  famous  rhetorician  of  Athens. 

Ill 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

ander  said  to  her:  "  Kiss  not  my  chains,  but  rather  go 
and  find  those  of  the  Blessed  Peter  and  kiss  them!  " 

Balbina  hastened  to  obey.  The  chains  with  which 
Nero  bound  St.  Peter  had  been  devoutly  preserved  by 
the  Christians,  and  she  had  no  trouble  in  finding  them. 
With  the  Pope's  consent  she  gave  them  into  the  keeping 
of  Theodora,  the  sister  of  St.  Hermes,  the  Roman  magis- 
trate who  had  been  martyred  under  Trajan  a  few  years 
earlier.  Theodora  seems  to  have  deposited  them  in  St. 
Peter's  own  little  Church  on  the  Esquiline,  and  we  can 
infer  that  it  was  there  that  the  wonderful  scene  described 
in  the  Roman  Breviary  took  place  more  than  four  hun- 
dred years  later.  How  one  wishes  one  could  have  seen 
the  fair  young  Empress  in  her  straight  Byzantine  robe, 
stiff  with  gold  and  gleaming  with  jewels,  kneeling  with 
clasped  hands,  her  eyes  wide  with  wonder,  in  the  half 
light  of  the  old  chapel,  while  St.  Leo,  not  too  absorbed 
in  devotion  to  be  keenly  interested  in  his  examination, 
as  he  was  in  everything  that  seemed  worthy  of  attention 
at  all  —  stood  where  the  sun  rays  fell  through  one  dim 
window,  and,  the  chain  from  Jerusalem  in  one  hand  and 
the  Roman  one  in  the  other,  held  them  close  together 
to  compare  and  judge  of  them.  As  he  did  so,  they 
touched  —  and  then  the  marvel  happened.  Link  sprang 
to  meet  link,  ring  welded  into  ring,  and  while  the  Pon- 
tiff gazed  mute  and  awestruck,  that  which  he  held  had 
become  one  chain  without  scar  or  flaw  to  show  the  point 
of  union  —  the  Chain  still  guarded,  still  venerated  on  the 
very  spot  where  the  portent  occurred. 

Eudoxia  built  a  noble  Church  as  a  shrine  for  the  relic; 
this  Church  was  restored  and  added  to  as  the  ages  passed 
on,  and  exactly  one  thousand  years  after  Eudoxia's  time, 
in  1477,  Sixtus  IV  and  his  nephew,  Giuliano  della  Rovere, 

112 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

caused  a  splendid  casket  with  bronze  doors  to  be  made 
and  placed  under  the  High  Altar  to  receive  St.  Peter's 
Chains.  There  they  now  lie,  and  on  the  ist  of  August, 
every  year,  there  is  high  festival  in  San  Pietro  in  Vincoli; 
the  walls  are  hung  from  top  to  bottom  with  crimson 
brocade,  the  pavement  is  strewn  all  the  way  from  the 
door  to  the  High  Altar  with  freshly  gathered  box  sprigs, 
and  their  fresh,  clean  fragrance  mingles  with  the  perfume 
of  incense  and  the  peculiar  sweetness  that  pure  wax  can- 
dles give  out  when  lighted  in  great  numbers  close  together. 
There  is  High  Mass  with  solemn  music  and  the  celebrant 
and  his  assistant  wear  their  richest  vestments.  The 
Church  is  crowded  with  worshippers  and  wreathed  in 
flowers,  and  when  the  two  Chains  which  became  one  in 
the  hands  of  St.  Leo  are  shown  to  the  faithful,  the  sight 
seems  to  bridge  the  centuries  for  us,  and  fills  our  hearts 
with  love  and  gratitude  to  God  for  giving  us  our  first 
great  Pastor,  who  bore  them  so  rejoicingly  for  his  and 
our  Master's  sake. 


On  the  sixth  day  of  the  Octave  the  Pontiff  said  Mass 
in  the  Mamertine  Prison,  where  the  two  Apostles  passed 
the  last  days  of  their  life  on  earth  —  the  "  Voters  of  the 
Chamber  "  assisting  at  the  function.  On  the  seventh, 
the  chosen  sanctuary  was  that  of  S.  Pietro  in  Montorio, 
the  spot  on  the  Janiculum  Hill  where  St.  Peter  suffered 
martyrdom.  Its  terrace  porch,  high  on  the  side  of  the 
slope,  is  the  one  spot  I  know  of  from  which  all  Rome 
can  be  seen,  spread  out  like  a  mantle  of  jewels  on  either 
side  of  its  yellow  river  and  raising  its  classic  hills  in  a 
wide  semicircle  against  the  shifting  red  and  gold  of  the 
Campagna,  the  blue  of  the  serrated  Sabines  to  the  east 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

and  the  soft  green  outlines  of  the  Alban  Mountains  to 
the  south.  The  vast  perfection  of  the  scene  is  almost 
more  than  sight  can  suffer;  the  beauty  becomes  a  menace 
in  some  strange  way;  it  is  as  if  man  had  challenged  the 
Creator  to  a  contest  of  production.  Exquisite  as  is  the 
distant  landscape,  more  lovely  still  is  that  huge  city  with 
its  hundred  domes  tossed  up  like  opals  to  the  sun,  its 
proud  honey-coloured  palaces  raising  tier  after  tier  of 
fretted  marble  in  noble  and  perfect  outlines,  its  mediaeval 
towers,  windowless,  huge,  indestructible  memorials  of 
long  past  strife  and  carnage,  standing  like  half-drowned 
breakwaters  frowning  on  the  tide  of  ever  growing  life 
and  splendour  that  they  have  been  powerless  to  arrest; 
the  Coliseum  crouches  like  a  sulky  monster  at  the  foot 
of  the  Esquiline,  whence  St.  Mary  Major  and  St.  John 
Lateran  look  down  on  it  as  the  angels  might  look  down 
on  the  dead;  wherever  a  convent  or  villa  lies  along  a 
ridge,  the  slender  spires  of  cypresses  mark  the  line,  an- 
swering to  every  kiss  of  the  breeze,  though  the  dark 
velvet  of  their  foliage  refuses  a  single  gleam  to  the  sun; 
add  to  this  the  rush  and  sparkle  of  Rome's  innumerable 
fountains,  and  you  have  a  vision  so  matchless  in  beauty 
and  so  supreme  in  associations  that  it  inspires  an  awe  too 
great  for  delight. 

Yet,  splendid  as  it  appears  to  us,  how  much  more  splen- 
did must  it  have  shone,  externally,  when  St.  Peter's  dying 
eyes  looked  their  last  on  the  "  Golden  City  "  of  Nero, 
teeming  with  its  two  millions  of  inhabitants;  and  St.  Peter 
saw  what  our  eyes  are  too  dim  to  see,  the  victorious  army 
of  his  martyred  children  already  crowned  in  Heaven, 
the  vast  field  which  they  had  bedewed  with  their  blood 
to  nourish  the  seed  of  the  Church  —  the  miles  of  hidden 
sepulchres  whence  their  bodies  are  to  rise  triumphant  at 

114 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

the  Last  Day;  and  the  tears  we  are  told  he  shed  ere  he 
died  were  surely  tears  of  joy  for  the  glory  that  was  to 
be  Rome's. 

In  the  courtyard  of  the  monastery  attached  to  the 
Church  of  San  Pietro  in  Montorio,  the  exact  spot  where 
his  inverted  cross  was  erected  is  enclosed  in  a  lovely  cir- 
cular chapel  surrounded  by  granite  columns,  the  work 
of  the  great  Bramante.  The  hole  where  the  cross  stood 
has  never  been  filled  up,  but  is  left  open  to  view,  and, 
if  you  are  one  of  the  faithful,  the  good  monk  who  shows 
it  will  give  you  a  few  grains  of  that  consecrated  soil  to 
take  home  with  you.  The  Church  itself  was  built  by 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella  of  Spain,  and  Michelangelo  took 
great  interest  in  it,  going  to  the  length  of  quarrelling  bit- 
terly with  his  friend  Vasari  about  the  design  for  the 
chapel  which  they  had  jointly  undertaken  to  put  in  for 
the  reigning  Pope,  Julius  III.  He  desired  to  have  there 
a  fitting  sepulchre  and  memorial  for  his  Cardinal-uncle, 
Antonio  dei  Monti,  through  whom  the  obscure  Tuscan 
family  had  risen  to  power  and  prominence.  The  sculptor, 
seeing  with  his  mind's  eye  the  statues  he  intended  to  place 
there,  vowed  that  there  should  be  no  architectural  orna- 
mentation to  detract  from  their  effect;  Vasari  looked  upon 
the  statues  as  mere  details  of  the  ornamentation  of  the 
whole.  So  they  quarrelled,  both  about  the  subordinates 
chosen  by  Vasari  to  carry  out  the  work  and  about  the 
work  itself.  Michelangelo  won  his  point,  the  chapel  was 
left  austerely  bare;  the  statues  looked  cold  and  lonely 
in  it;  and  Michelangelo,  who  would  have  died  rather 
than  subscribe  to  an  artistic  falsehood,  admitted  his  error 
and  acknowledged  that  Vasari  had  been  right. 

He  left  some  fine  traces  of  his  genius  in  the  paintings 
now  in  other  chapels  of  the  Church;  he  supplied  Sebas- 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

tian  del  Piombo  with  the  design  for  the  "  Scourging  of 
Christ,"  and  Vasari  tells  us  a  quaint  story  about  another 
picture  there.  It  seems  that  the  famous  Cardinal  San 
Giorgio  had  a  barber  who,  in  his  leisure  hours,  had  learnt 
to  handle  the  brush  and  had  become  a  fine  artist  in 
tempera,  but  who  could  not.  draw  a  single  correct  line. 
Michelangelo  discovered  him,  encouraged  him  to  perse- 
vere, and,  wishing  to  give  him  a  chance,  made  a  very 
careful  cartoon  of  St.  Francis  receiving  the  Stigmata,  and 
told  the  barber  to  copy  and  carry  it  out  in  colour.  This 
the  humble  painter  did,  very  successfully,  and  his  name, 
Giovanni  dei  Vecchi,  has  come  down  to  us,  with  those  of 
the  approved  artists  of  his  day. 

The  incident  leaves  us  with  a  delightful  impression  of 
the  great-hearted  genius,  so  patiently  and  kindly  help- 
ing on  an  obscure  disciple,  and  lends  much  interest  to 
the  painting  which  stands  as  a  memorial  of  his  conde- 
scension. There  is  another  souvenir  of  him  in  Rome, 
which  calls  up  a  picture  equally  attractive  —  that  of  his 
wandering  into  the  Farnesina  one  fine  morning  to  have 
a  chat  with  his  young  friend,  Raffaelle  Sanzio  of  Urbino, 
who  was  employed  in  decorating  the  sala  of  the  exquisite 
little  palace  of  the  "  Farnesina  "  with  the  immortal  story 
of  Cupid  and  Psyche.  But  the  place  was  deserted. 
Messer  Raffaelle  had  gone  off  to  get  his  dinner,  and 
Michelangelo  could  not  have  any  of  the  talk  he  enjoyed 
so  much.  Looking  round  for  something  on  which  to  write 
his  name  and  let  his  friend  know  that  he  had  tried  to 
see  him,  his  eyes  fell  on  Raffaelle's  palette  and  brushes, 
all  charged  with  colour.  Michelangelo  snatched  them 
up,  and,  laughing  in  his  beard  at  the  schoolboy  joke  he 
was  perpetrating,  mounted  on  a  step-ladder  and  dashed 
in  a  great  strong  head  on  one  of  the  yet  empty  lunettes. 

116' 


THE  LATER  EMPERORS 

It  took  him  just  half  an  hour,  and  then  he  ran  away, 
chuckling  at  the  thought  of  the  young  man's  surprise 
and  perplexity  when  he  should  return  and  see  what  some 
unknown  visitor  had  done.  But  Messer  Raffaelle  was  not 
in  the  least  perplexed.  There  was  but  one  hand  in  the 
world  that  could  have  drawn  those  bold,  tempestuous 
lines.  He  refused  to  efface  them,  and  the  head  is  there 
to  this  day,  a  tribute  to  Michelangelo's  humour  and 
Raphael's  reverence.  .They  call  it  "  Michelangelo's  vis- 
iting card." 


117 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

Final  Function  of  the  Pilgrimage — St.  John  Later  an — A  Daring  Climb 
— A  Story  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi — Dante's  Tribute — Rome's  Ghetto — 
Yellow  Banksia  Roses — Fair  on  the  Eve  of  the  Feast  of  St.  John 
the  Baptist — Early  Figs — St.  Anthony  and  the  Sucking  Pig — Rome's 
Studios — A  Picture  of  Hebert's — Hamon's  Work. 

THE  sixth  day  of  July  closes  the  Octave  of  the 
29th  of  June  with  a  magnificent  function,  at- 
tended by  the  whole  College  of  Cardinals,  in  the  Church 
of  St.  John  Lateran,  the  outpost  of  the  Eternal  City  on 
its  southern  side.  The  Basilica  faces  in  that  direction 
and  is  the  last  building  within  the  city  walls,  which  still 
raise  their  crenellated  barrier  of  Roman  masonry  between 
it  and  the  Campagna  beyond.  This,  the  real  approach 
to  the  Church,  is  very  beautiful.  The  portico  is  sur- 
mounted by  statues  of  the  Apostles,  which  are  visible  from 
a  great  distance  away  on  the  Campagna,  and  is  reached 
by  a  series  of  shallow  marble  steps,  where,  in  my  early 
days,  many  devout  beggars  were  wont  to  sit  and  ask  for 
alms.  Below  the  steps  and  commanding  a  glorious  view 
of  the  Campagna  and  its  encircling  hills,  stretches  a  wide 
grassy  terrace  where  we  often  walked  up  and  down  for 
a  long  time,  at  the  end  of  an  afternoon  drive,  thus  fol- 
lowing the  example  of  many  of  the  Popes,  with  whom 
this  was  a  favourite  spot,  when  in  residence  at  the 
Lateran  Palace.  Distances  are  deceptive  where  spaces 
are  so  great;  the  grassy  stretch  never  looked  very  vast; 
the  feathery  mulberry  trees  that  grew  under  the  old  Au- 

118 


THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

relian  wall  seemed  almost  within  reach;  but  in  reality 
were  quite  a  little  way  from  the  green  terrace.  The  wall 
always  fascinated  me  because  of  its  crown  of  small  loop- 
holed  towers,  set  near  together  and  connected  by  a 
covered  way  that  still  looked  practicable  enough,  although 
I  believe  there  was  no  mode  of  reaching  it  except  by 
scrambling  up  from  the  outside.  In  those  days  the  sturdy 
ruin  was  covered  with  wild  flowers  and  creeping  plants, 
the  long  garlands  of  yellow  camomile  waving  like  strings 
of  stars  in  the  wind,  some  lovely  things,  whose  name 
I  never  knew,  sending  out  arm-long  shafts  of  pink  and 
purple  from  every  crevice,  two  or  three  live-oak  saplings 
finding  good  root-hold  on  the  top,  and  every  foot  of 
surface  covered  with  the  velvety  jewelled  leaves  and  tiny 
lilac  flowers  of  another  little  old  friend,  which  I  think 
the  wise  men  call  the  "  parietary  "  and  which  I  found, 
true  to  its  name,  clothing  whole  walls  of  our  temple  home 
in  North  China.  There  the  blossoms  were  much  larger, 
and  during  the  stagnating  days  of  one  scorching  summer 
I  used  to  pass  hours  in  the  deep,  damp  court  where  they 
grew,  and  discovered  (what  I  suppose  any  botanist  could 
have  told  me)  that  their  strange  lucency  comes  from  a 
sticky  liquid  effused  over  the  petals,  which  themselves 
throw  out  a  network  of  all  but  invisible  hairs;  that  flies 
and  gnats  settle  on  these  hairs,  get  caught  by  the  treach- 
erous gum  —  and  then  are  quietly  sucked  in  and  devoured 
by  the  flower! 

It  was  always  in  my  mind  to  make  a  secret  expedition, 
with  my  adventurous  sister,  to  that  old  Aurelian  wall, 
when  no  one  should  be  about,  and  somehow  or  other 
reach  the  top,  but  we  never  carried  out  that  plan,  though 
we  did  some  pretty  risky  climbing  in  other  ruins,  notably 
at  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  where  we  scaled  the  very 

119 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

highest  point  of  the  biggest  arch  and  lay  at  full  length  — 
we  dared  not  stand  on  a  block  of  stone  that  rocked  as 
we  moved  —  looking  down  from  the  dizzy  height  on  a 
world  of  tiny  people  and  things  below.  Some  glorious 
tufts  of  wallflower  were  our  only  companions  and  I 
remember  how  wonderful  was  that  mass  of  fervid  orange 
swaying  in  the  sun,  against  the  azure  of  the  sky  and  the 
deep,  dreamy  blue  of  the  distant  hills.  We  went  there 
many  times  —  but  at  last  there  came  a  day  when  the 
authorities  decreed  that  that  particular  bit  of  the  ruin 
was  so  near  falling  that  it  constituted  a  menace  to  the 
remains  below.  It  was  removed,  and  some  of  the  ap- 
proaches to  the  other  heights  were  walled  up  so  that 
no  one  could  risk  life  and  limb  upon  them  any  more,  and 
we  never  cared  to  go  to  the  Baths  again.  Now,  of  course, 
there  is  no  temptation  to  linger  in  any  of  the  ruins,  as 
the  ignorant  beauty-haters  who  took  possession  of  our 
Rome  in  1870  declared  that  the  unique  vegetation  which 
adorned  them  was  an  agent  of  destruction  and  must  be 
swept  away.  Every  vestige  of  flower  and  shrub  was 
rooted  out,  the  poor  old  buildings  became  an  eyesore 
instead  of  a  delight,  and  the  process  of  stripping  off 
the  kindly  mantle  which  the  ages  had  cast  over  their 
nakedness  inflicted  greater  damage,  the  experts  now  tell 
us,  than  five  hundred  years  more  of  age  and  weather 
could  possibly  have  done.  My  dear  brother  Marion  used 
to  say  that  the  world  was  peopled  chiefly  with  fools  and 
—  blanked  fools.  What  a  charming  world  it  would  be  if 
the  blanked  fools  never  got  into  power ! 

But  to  return  to  the  porch  of  the  Lateran  and  its 
devout  beggars.  On  a  certain  day  some  eight  hundred 
years  ago,  the  Pope  was  walking  on  that  green  stretch 
just  below  it,  followed  by  a  silent  group  of  Cardinals 

120 


THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

and  Chamberlains,  silent  because  the  Holy  Father  was 
evidently  thinking  hard  about  some  high  and  important 
problem.  Innocent  III  was  a  great  and  good  Pope,  but 
he  lived  in  a  turbulent  age.  During  fourteen  years  of 
his  reign  two  rivals,  Philip  and  Otto,  were  rending  Eu- 
rope with  their  struggles  for  the  supreme  honours  of 
the  Holy  Roman  Empire;  the  Albigensian  heresy  was 
holding  a  hideous  carnival  of  sacrilege,  carnage,  and 
obscenity  in  some  of  its  fairest  lands;  Rome  itself  was 
the  scene  of  ever-recurring  battles  between  the  great 
nobles,  who  would  ride  forth  in  the  morning  followed 
by  great  companies  of  armed  men,  on  the  chance  of  meet- 
ing an  enemy  or  an  enemy's  retainer  to  kill.  And  with 
all  this  there  were  the  vast  affairs  of  the  Church  to  gov- 
ern, and  many  spiritual  matters  to  regulate.  No  wonder 
that  the  Pontiff,  walking  in  absorbed  silence,  and  medi- 
tating on  his  course  of  action,  should  have  been  extremely 
irritated  when  a  company  of  travel-stained,  dusty  beg- 
gars, disregarding  the  protestations  of  the  horrified  guard 
of  officials,  came  straight  towards  him  and  cast  them- 
selves at  his  feetl 

He  looked  down  at  them  in  frowning  disapproval. 
What  did  such  conduct  mean?  Their  leader  was  a  pale 
young  man  with  dark  eyes  and  a  face  lighted  up  with 
a  very  fire  of  enthusiasm.  Like  his  companions,  he  was 
dressed  in  a  coarse  brown  robe  with  a  simple  girdle,  and 
his  bare  feet  showed  many  a  cut  and  bruise  from  which 
the  ragged  sandals  had  not  saved  them  in  the  long  tramp 
from  Assisi  down  through  Umbria  2nd  Romagna.  For 
this  was  the  Blessed  St.  Francis  with  his  "  little  broth- 
ers," come  to  ask  the  Pope  for  leave  to  found  a  new 
order,  the  Order  of  Poverty.  And  the  Pope  scarcely 
answered  him.  Was  it  likely  that  these  ragged,  ignorant 

121 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

tramps  should  have  been  chosen  by  Divine  Providence  to 
found  a  new  family  in  the  Church?  Ah,  no !  —  Innocent 
shook  his  head,  reproved  them  for  their  presumption,  and 
ordered  them  to  retire. 

They  accepted  the  rebuke,  withdrew  from  his  pres- 
ence with  perfect  humility,  and  laid  their  case  before  the 
Lord  in  prayer.  The  Pope,  doubtless  finding  that  the 
view  from  the  green  terrace  had  lost  its  charm  at  this 
squalid  incursion,  retired  to  his  apartments  in  the  Lateran 
Palace,  and  when  night  fell  lay  down  and  went  to  sleep. 
And  in  sleep  his  eyes  were  opened  to  that  which  had 
been  hidden  from  them  by  day.  He  dreamed  that  a 
tender  young  palm-tree  sprang  suddenly  from  the  ground 
beneath  his  feet  and  in  a  moment  shot  up  to  the  sky 
and  threw  out  strong  branches  on  every  side,  forming  a 
vast  roof  of  fresh  verdure  under  which  millions  of  men 
found  refuge  and  refreshment.  Then  he  understood  that 
the  poor  mendicants  who  had  knelt  before  him  that  day 
were  chosen  by  Heaven  to  found  an  order  that  should 
cover  the  world  with  a  mantle  of  charity;  and  as  soon  as 
he  awoke  he  sent  messengers  in  haste  to  seek  the  little 
brown  brothers  —  who  were  sure  to  be  found  in  or  near 
the  Lateran  Basilica,  and  bring  them  to  him. 

We  all  know  the  result  of  the  interview.  How  the 
Pope  lovingly  received  the  brothers,  but  how  strongly  he 
protested  against  St.  Francis'  apparent  imprudence  in 
founding  his  institution  on  a  vow  of  absolute  poverty. 
How  St.  Francis  refused  to  be  shaken  in  his  loyalty  to 
his  loved  bride,  the  "  Lady  Poverty,"  and  how  at  last 
the  great  Pope  yielded  to  the  great  Saint,  discerning  that 
Heaven  itself  was  leading  him  on  this  thorny  path.  So 
much  has  been  written  about  St.  Francis  by  heretics,  un- 
believers, and  amateurs,  from  whose  company  he  would 

122 


THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

have  fled  in  horror,  on  earth,  who  have  bespattered  him 
with  their  poisonous  praises,  who  have  each  and  all 
insulted  him  by  the  lies  which  they  invented  in  order 
to  represent  him  as  the  patron  of  their  abominable  er- 
rors, that  a  Catholic  pen  almost  hesitates  to  write  his 
blessed  name.  As  one  good  man  says:  "He  has  con- 
quered the  world,  and  his  victory  would  make  him 
weep  I  "  But  he  conquered  it  in  another  way  too  —  in 
the  way  he  intended.  Travel  where  you  will,  to  the  very 
ends  of  the  earth,  and  you  will  find  the  brown  robes,  the 
sandalled  feet,  the  arms  held  open  to  the  poor  and  the 
suffering  and  the  despised;  you  will  find  the  Sons  of  St. 
Francis  toiling  in  the  stoniest,  roughest  part  of  the  vine- 
yard, with  and  of  the  poor,  praying  for  all  men,  teaching 
the  children,  nursing  the  sick,  baptising  the  babes  and 
the  heathen,  burying  the  dead,  begging,  more  for  their 
poor  than  for  themselves,  from  door  to  door,  leading  the 
hardest  of  lives,  yet  always  cheery  and  contented,  the 
friends  of  all  who  need  them,  the  "  gente  poverella  " 
are  indeed  friends  who  never  change  or  fail. 

Of  all  the  panegyrics  of  St.  Francis,  and  of  the  "  Lady 
Poverty,"  I  think  the  one  that  Dante  put  into  the  mouth 
of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  in  the  eleventh  canto  of  the 
"  Paradiso,"  is  the  most  perfect  and  complete.  And 
the  description  of  St.  Dominic  in  the  next  canto  is  its 
match.  Here,  Dante  let  his  "  great,  grieved  heart  "  have 
its  way  for  once,  and  every  line  that  he  wrote  about  these 
glorious  friends  of  God  throbs  with  passionate  venera- 
tion. Brothers  in  heart  they  were  on  earth,  and  he  sees 
them  not  separated  in  Heaven.  How  one  wishes  that 
he  had  left  us,  in  the  two  lines  that  are  all  he  needs  to 
paint  an  immortal  picture,  a  description  of  their  first 
meeting  in  the  Church  of  St.  John  Lateranl 

123 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

For  it  was  there  that  they  met.  St.  Dominic  had  had 
a  strange  dream  the  night  before,  in  which  he  beheld  the 
Saviour  preparing  to  smite  and  exterminate  the  wicked 
-  the  proud,  the  voluptuaries,  the  misers;  but  His  Blessed 
Mother  suddenly  appeared,  and  stayed  His  wrath  by  pre- 
senting to  Him  two  monks:  one  was  Dominic  himself; 
the  other,  a  poor  holy  man  clothed  in  rags,  whom  he 
had  never  seen.  Greatly  exercised  in  soul,  he  went  to 
the  Lateran  Church  in  the  morning  to  ask  for  light  and 
guidance.  As  he  entered  his  eyes  fell  on  a  ragged  men- 
dicant who  was  praying  so  fervently  that  his  face  was 
all  aflame  with  love  and  joy.  It  was  the  face  Dominic 
had  seen  in  his  dream.  He  rushed  to  Francis  and 
clasped  him  in  his  arms,  exclaiming:  "  Thou  art  my  com- 
rade and  my  brother!  We  run  one  race,  we  pant  for 
the  same  goal.  Let  us  be  united  henceforth,  and  no  enemy 
can  conquer  us!  " 

And  so  it  was.  These  two  suns  of  warmth  and  light, 
as  Dante  calls  them,  founded  each  his  own  great  spiritual 
family,  worked  wherever  their  beloved  Master  sent  them, 
in  separate  fields,  but  from  that  morning  moment  in  the 
Church  of  San  Giovanni  in  Laterano  to  the  end  of  their 
blessed  lives  they  were,  as  the  old  chronicle  says,  "  One 
heart  and  one  soul  in  God." 

Of  the  riches  and  glories  of  the  Lateran  Basilica  and 
the  Lateran  Palace  it  is  not  for  me  to  write.  The  mere 
lists  of  them  occupy  whole  chapters  in  the  guidebooks 
and  even  there  they  have  to  be  much  boiled  down,  often 
only  a  word  or  two  indicating  objects  and  places  of  para- 
mount interest  to  Catholic  travellers;  and  these  slight- 
ing mentions  are  defaced  for  us,  even  in  such  valuable 
and  sweet-minded  works  as  Augustus  Hare's  "  Walks  in 
Rome,"  by  a  question  mark  or  an  exclamation  mark,  in- 

124 


THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

tended  to  denote  ridicule,  inserted  after  the  word  "  mira- 
cle "  or  "  relic,"  to  show  that  the  writer  was  anxious 
to  be  exonerated  from  any  suspicion  of  sharing  the  pious 
beliefs  of  devout  persons  on  such  subjects.  I  have  seen 
one  or  two  Catholic  guidebooks  to  Rome,  but  they  were 
meagre  and  unsatisfactory,  more  pamphlets  than  books. 
If  a  really  good  modern  one  exists,  I  should  be  grateful 
to  any  reader  who  would  tell  me  about  it. 

There  are  some  very  ancient  ones  indeed,  compiled  be- 
tween the  Seventh  and  the  Tenth  centuries,  which  were 
apparently  well  known  and  readily  available  for  the  pil- 
grims of  the  age  of  Faith,  although,  so  far  as  I  know, 
there  are  but  very  few  copies  of  any  of  them  in  existence 
now.  They  are  called  the  "  Salzburg,"  the  "  Einsiedeln," 
and  the  "  Malmesbury "  guides,  and  must  make  inter- 
esting reading  not  only  for  their  own  sake,  but  on  ac- 
count of  the  actual  descriptions  of  the  city  which  has 
undergone  so  many  changes  and  revolutions  of  its  topog- 
raphy during  the  last  thousand  years  of  its  history.  The 
changes  of  the  last  fifty  years  have  been  perhaps  the  most 
surprising  of  all,  considering  that  they  were  not  brought 
about  by  the  time-honoured  means  of  war  and  pillage, 
but  forced  upon  Rome  under  the  comprehensive  but  some- 
times mendacious  name  of  "  improvements."  There  was 
plenty  of  room  for  improvements,  and  where  these  have 
been  genuine  nobody  would  wish  to  quarrel  with  them, 
although  even  some  of  them  were  not  needed,  as  claimed, 
for  the  health  of  the  city.  The  Ghetto,  for  instance,  was 
an  eyesore  —  and  looked,  with  its  squalid  crowds  of  rag- 
pickers and  old-clothes  dealers,  as  if  it  must  be  a  hot-bed 
of  disease.  It  was  precisely  the  contrary.  When  the 
old  pestilence  or  the  new  cholera  were  carrying  off  many 
hundreds  a  day  in  the  better  parts  of  the  city,  there  was 

125 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

not  a  single  case  in  the  Ghetto.  My  brother  points  out, 
in  "  Ave,  Roma  Immortalis,"  that  the  regulation  confin- 
ing them  to  that  tiny  district,  from  the  gates  of  which 
they  might  not  issue  after  dark,  though  intended  as  a 
measure  of  repression,  was  really  a  great  advantage  to 
them,  in  that  behind  those  gates  they  were  protected  from 
robbery  and  violence  and  governed  themselves  according 
to  their  own  queer  laws  without  any  interference  from 
the  municipal  authorities.  Certain  industries  they  mo- 
nopolised altogether.  I  remember  that  whenever  a  new 
carpet  was  to  be  put  down  in  my  mother's  house,  Lucia, 
the  housekeeper,  would  send  one  of  her  underlings  to 
summon  "la  Giudea  "  to  sew  it — and  fierce  old  Lucia 
would  never  have  let  a  Jewess  cross  the  threshold  had  she 
been  able  to  find  a  Christian  to  undertake  the  task  I  I 
was  always  glad  when  this  happened,  for  Lucia's  par- 
ticular Jewess  was  a  most  cheery,  sociable  soul,  who  would 
sit  on  the  hard  stone  floor  all  day  making  her  huge 
needle  fly  in  and  out  of  the  heavy  carpet-stuff,  and  look 
up  and  shake  her  black  ringlets  and  greet  me  with  the 
merriest  of  smiles  every  time  I  passed  through  the  room. 
Not  only  such  coarse  work,  but  all  the  finest  of  darning 
was  entrusted  to  her.  Some  disastrous  rent  in  new  broad- 
cloth —  "  un  sette  "  as  the  Italians  call  it,  because  it  al- 
ways outlines  the  figure  seven  —  would  come  back  from 
her  dark  thin  hands  so  deftly  mended  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  find  the  place;  did  some  careless  guest  drop  a 
lighted  cigarette  on  one  of  the  satiny  damask  table- 
cloths —  quick,  send  it  to  the  Giudea  and  the  Signora 
herself  may  forget  that  it  ever  was  burnt !  Darning  and 
patching  came  to  the  women  naturally,  I  suppose,  seeing 
that  the  chief  industry  of  the  Ghetto  consists  in  mending 
old  clothes  and  selling  them  for  new.  Pius  IX  set  the 

126 


THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

Jews  free  from  all  the  old  humiliating  restrictions  of  their 
life  in  Rome,  but  until  the  Ghetto  was  swept  away  by 
the  present  Government,  they  clung  to  it  tenaciously,  and 
no  wonder,  for  it  was  their  very  own,  a  little  fortress 
of  Jewry  where  no  Christian  ever  came  to  disturb  them, 
either  at  work  or  worship. 

With  the  inherited  aversion  and  all  the  old  traditions 
strong  in  us,  we  children  of  Rome  never  set  foot  there 
more  than  once  or  twice  in  all  our  lives.  Our  home  was 
at  the  other  end  of  the  city,  on  the  noble  heights  of  the 
Esquiline,  and  almost  all  that  we  loved  best  grouped  it- 
self in  that  quarter.  I  have  the  most  delightful  recollec- 
tions of  the  walk  from  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  our  own 
Church,  to  the  great  free  spaces  round  the  Lateran.  The 
last  part  of  the  way  led  through  the  Via  San  Giovanni, 
on  the  right  side  of  which  were  scarcely  any  buildings  at 
all,  but  only  a  long  wall  overhung,  in  the  late  spring, 
with  masses  of  yellow  Banksia  roses,  their  trailing 
wreaths  hanging  so  near  our  heads  that  we  had  but  to 
spring  and  snatch  to  carry  away  big  handfuls  of  the  flow- 
ers, and  what  flowers!  Yard-long  arcs  of  ruffled  honey 
tossed  up  against  that  Roman  blue,  every  petal  of  the 
million  a  wing  of  translucent  gold  in  sun  and  breeze; 
no  stem,  no  foliage  visible  through  the  crowded  blooms, 
except  where  the  trailers  tapered  to  the  last  tiny  cluster 
of  unopened  buds,  set  like  yellow  pearls  in  the  green 
calix,  tapered  to  a  point  so  delicate  that  the  faintest 
breath  would  set  them  waving  and  quivering  as  if  mad 
to  burst  their  bonds  and  flutter  in  the  sunshine  like  the 
rest.  And  their  perfume,  that  perfume  of  warm  wax, 
the  purest  and  sweetest  in  this  world,  filled  the  whole 
street  —  not  altogether  honestly  perhaps,  for,  by  a  rare 
harmony  of  the  eternal  fitness  of  things,  the  long  wall  on 

127 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

which  they  grew  sheltered,  in  the  middle  of  a  beautiful 
garden,  a  wax  factory  where  Church  candles  of  every 
size  were  made,  from  the  four-foot  pillar,  painted  like  a 
missal,  that  serves  for  the  Paschal  candle  in  Church,  to 
the  slim  taper  that  the  poorest  could  buy  to  light  before 
the  picture  of  their  patron  saint.  It  was  worth  while  to 
be  young,  with  every  sense  unspoiled,  and  to  go  dancing 
along  that  road  on  a  summer  afternoon;  to  stop  where  a 
low  gateway  led  into  the  hidden  garden  and  buy  from 
the  gardener's  wife  some  of  her  fat  bunches  of  red  car- 
nations and  lavender,  for  the  sake  of  the  Blessed  St. 
John,  whose  especial  flowers  they  are  —  also  the  cones 
of  lavender  made  by  tying  a  bundle  just  below  the  flowers, 
then  turning  the  stalks  back  over  these  and  tying  them 
again  to  form  an  egg-shaped  casket  from  which  nothing 
could  escape,  and  within  which  the  flowers  themselves 
could  crumble  to  fragrant  dust  that  would  keep  your 
linen  sweet  for  at  least  ten  years  from  the  day  they  were 
gathered.  We  never  felt  the  summer  had  really  come 
till  the  24th  of  June,  when  the  Feast  of  John  the  Bap- 
tist was  kept  in  .and  around  the  Church  of  St.  John  the 
Evangelist.  On  the  eve  the  Piazza  was  always  the  scene 
of  a  great  fair,  the  only  one  held  in  Rome,  during  the 
whole  year,  except  that  of  the  "  Befana  "  *  in  the  heart 
of  winter,  on  the  eve  of  the  Epiphany.  Of  course  the 
"  Eve  of  St.  John  "  is  the  midsummer  eve  that  was  re- 
garded with  special  and  superstitious  veneration  not  only 
by  the  pagans  of  Southern  Europe,  but  by  our  own  Teu- 
tonic and  Scandinavian  ancestors  as  well,  from  the  times 
of  the  Druids  themselves;  for  all  it  has  been  the  festival 
of  fire  —  because,  I  imagine,  people  wanted  to  scare 
away  the  dead  who  are  supposed  to  leave  their  graves  and 

*  See  "  A  Diplomatist's  Wife  in  Many  Lands." 
128 


THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

revisit  their  old  haunts  on  that  night,  but  still  more,  in 
the  beginning  of  man-made  worships,  to  render  homage 
to  the  sun  at  the  moment  of  his  supreme  triumph  during 
those  two  or  three  days  of  midsummer.  The  bonfires 
were  the  great  feature  of  the  Roman  fair;  scores  of 
them  were  lighted  in  the  broad  Piazza,  and  the  boys 
and  young  men  chased  each  other  through  them,  trying 
to  clear  the  flames  at  a  leap  and  screaming  out  unin- 
telligible old  songs  that  probably  served  their  ancestors 
for  charms.  The  Feast  of  St.  John  is  the  first  day  on 
which  it  is  considered  safe  to  eat  fresh  figs,  and  the  booths 
around  the  Piazza  were  piled  up  with  baskets  of  these. 
We  used  to  get  the  big  purple  ones,  bursting  with  crim- 
son syrup,  some  weeks  earlier,  but  the  Romans  do  not 
consider  them  as  real  figs.  They  are  called  "  Fior  di 
fico  " ;  the  pale  green  sort,  with  firm  rose-coloured  pulp 
and  holding  each  its  drop  of  amber  gum  on  the  tip,  is 
the  real  fig,  and  it  stays  with  us  right  through  the  sum- 
mer. In  Tuscany  I  used  to  climb  into  a  fig  tree  (their 
smooth  bark  and  fat  low  branches  afford  delightful  seats) 
and  stay  there  half  the  day,  with  a  book,  eating  all  I 
could  desire  of  the  ripe  fruit  and  quite  forgetting  the 
feast  when  dinner  time  came.  But  when  I  was  young 
the  word  "  dyspepsia  "  had  not  crossed  the  Atlantic,  and 
it  had  never  dawned  on  any  of  us  that  any  one  could 
possibly  be  upset  by  such  a  trifle  as  mere  food,  what- 
ever the  kind  or  quantity  indulged  in !  Once,  I  remem- 
ber, our  faithful  "  O  Ste  "  of  Rocca  di  Papa  was  terribly 
concerned  because  Marion,  aged  eight,  whom  he  had  con- 
ducted to  the  Fair  at  Grotia  Ferrata,  had  eaten,  as  the 
old  man  thought,  a  little  too  voraciously.  "  The 
Signorino  has  frightened  me,"  he  said  tremblingly  to 
our  governess  as  he  restored  the  youngster  to  her  in 

129 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

the  evening.  "  Twelve  eggs  and  half  a  sucking  pig  he 
consumed  for  his  dinner  —  I  could  not  stop  him  —  but  I 
pray  that  he  may  come  to  no  harm!  " 

That  excursion  must  have  been  made  for  the  Feast  of 
Sant'  Antonio,  our  Blessed  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua,  for, 
as  it  falls  on  the  I3th  of  June,  it  is  the  occasion  of  the 
sale  of  the  first  piglings  of  the  season,  and  everybody 
makes  it  a  point  of  honour  to  eat  roast  sucking  pig  on 
that  day,  unless  he  buys  the  little  pinky  white  thing  to 
fatten  for  the  winter.  This  is  why,  in  some  of  the  rep- 
resentations of  St.  Anthony,  there  is  a  little  pig  lying  at 
his  feet.  I  saw  a  funny  sight  in  Sorrento  once  on  the 
day  of  his  feast.  There  were  baby  pigs  for  sale  every- 
where, all  along  the  deep  lanes  that  intersect  the  Penisola, 
and  a  young  seminarist,  in  ecclesiastical  hat  and  soutane, 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  take  one  home  as  a  present  to 
his  family.  Anxiously  he  looked  at  and  felt  of  a  dozen 
or  so  before  he  made  his  choice;  then  came  the  bargain- 
ing for  the  price  —  half  the  fun  to  both  buyer  and  seller. 
The  boy  was  of  the  country  and  knew  just  what  he  ought 
to  pay;  the  owner,  seeing  his  costume,  had  taken  him 
for  a  greenhorn  and  tried  to  impose  upon  him;  the  duel 
was  long  and  vivacious.  At  last  the  matter  was  settled, 
the  right  sum  paid,  and  then  the  seminarist  undertook 
to  carry  his  fairing  home.  But  the  pig  refused  to  go, 
and  a  much  more  amusing  duel  than  the  first  one  took 
place  before  my  eyes,  the  little  pig  slipping  away  from 
its  would-be  captor's  hands  and  scuttling  off  in  a  cloud 
of  dust  down  the  lane,  the  seminarist  in  pursuit,  his  sou- 
tane flying,  his  three-cornered  hat  pushed  back,  his  round 
young  face  crimson  with  excitement,  while  the  man  who 
had  sold  him  the  animal  looked  on  in  roars  of  laughter. 
Finally  the  pig  was  conquered,  and  the  last  I  saw  of  him 

130 


THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

was  his  wriggling  hindquarters  and  curled-up  tail  pro- 
truding from  the  folds  of  the  cassock  in  which  the  boy 
had  rolled  him  up  and  tucked  him  under  his  arm,  while 
he  raced  for  home,  triumphant,  yet  fearful  that  the  ob- 
stinate little  beast  would  get  the  best  of  him  on  the  road. 


One  interest  that  generally  came  with  the  spring  and 
early  summer  was  that  of  making  the  round  of  the  studios, 
where  the  artists  let  their  friends  look  at  the  result  of 
the  year's  work  before  leaving  town  on  their  vacation 
wanderings.  Sometimes  the  studio  and  its  surroundings 
were  more  attractive  than  the  productions  it  contained 
and  then  it  required  some  self-control  to  keep  one's  eye, 
under  the  jealous  observation  of  the  artist,  on  the  can- 
vases or  the  statues,  instead  of  on  the  view  from  the 
windows  or  the  beautiful  draperies  and  curios  which  the 
wealthiest  ones  were  even  then  beginning  to  collect  around 
them.  This  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  mistake. 
The  old  idea  was  that  the  artist's  workshop  should  con- 
tain nothing  unconnected  with  his  work  or  at  any  rate 
contributive  to  it.  On  entering  the  studio  of  a  modern 
successful  artist  one  has  to  pinch  oneself  to  make  sure  one 
is  not  in  a  bric-a-brac  establishment  where  spoils  from 
all  the  curiosity  shops  in  Europe  have  been  tumbled  to- 
gether in  view  of  a  quick  sale.  There  is  none  of  the  im- 
pressive space  and  concentration  of  purpose  that  one 
felt  in  the  old  ascetic  studio  with  its  hard  north  light, 
its  aged  painting  table,  its  few  seriously  thought-out 
pictures,  and  its  shoals  of  preparatory  drawings  and 
sketches.  There  were  no  "studio  teas"  in  those  days; 
the  artist  opened  the  door  himself  and  told  one  frankly 
whether  the  visit  were  well-timed  or  not;  if  he  were 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

prosperous  his  one  familiar,  some  humble  "  Giuseppe  " 
or  "  Antonio,"  came  in  at  the  end  of  the  day  to  wash 
the  brushes  and  perhaps  sweep  the  floor;  most  of  the 
time  there  were  no  chairs  except  one  for  the  model  and 
one  for  the  painter.  But  the  atmosphere  of  work  was 
there,  and  the  respect  for  it  struck  every  one  who  crossed 
the  threshold,  so  that  voices  were  lowered  and  even  the 
most  enthusiastic  admiration  very  soberly  expressed. 

I  always  felt  like  an  ignorant  intruder  when  I  had  pene- 
trated into  one  of  these  sanctuaries,  but  there  were  some 
from  which  I  could  not  keep  away.  One  belonged  to 
Hebert,  the  then  president  of  the  French  Academy  in 
Rome.  He  was  a  grave,  dark-eyed  man  with  a  low  voice 
and  much  indulgence  for  youth  and  ignorance,  and  he 
never  asked  one  for  comments  or  ideas  —  just  let  one 
stand  before  his  glowing  paintings  and  dream  —  as  his 
Madonnas  seemed  to  dream  —  in  silent  happiness.  Not 
that  his  superb  Armenian  beauties  were  really  Madonnas 
at  all;  their  loveliness  was  mysterious  but  not  spiritual; 
the  unfathomable  eyes  had  seen  all  the  glory  and  the 
tragedy  of  earth,  but  they  had  never  looked  on  Heaven; 
the  glowing  cheeks  had  never  paled  with  awe,  the  ex- 
quisite idle  hands  could  never  have  been  folded  in  prayer. 
It  was  perfect  beauty,  but  beauty  unbaptised,  a  type  which 
might  have  served  for  a  Cleopatra,  could  Cleopatra  have 
lived  without  sin,  but  never  for  Mary  of  Nazareth. 

One  year,  I  remember,  Hebert  had  devoted  all  his  time 
to  one  great  allegorical  canvas,  the  Shunamite  of  the 
Canticle  seeking  news  of  her  Beloved  from  the  maidens 
by  the  gate.  The  faint  eastern  dawn  was  paling  the  sky 
and  bringing  out  mistily  a  few  features  of  the  city  in 
the  background,  as  a  train  of  girls  who  had  been  to  fetch 
water  were  returning  from  the  well.  They  were  human 

132 


THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

girls,  and  had  been  chattering  gaily  as  they  approached 
the  gate;  then  the  words  died  on  their  lips,  the  foremost 
ones  fell  back,  crowding  those  behind,  for  they  were 
met  by  the  Shunamite,  a  maid  in  all  the  white  beauty  of 
first  youth,  undraped,  naked  as  truth,  and  pure  as  Eve 
on  the  morning  of  her  creation,  her  eyes  shining  with  love 
through  brimming  tears,  and  her  hands  stretched  out 
entreatingly  as  she  asked,  "  Have  ye  seen  my  Beloved,  ye 
daughters  of  Jerusalem?  " 

It  was  a  strange  picture;  the  thought  was  the  same 
that  Titian  expressed  in  his  "  Divine  and  Earthly  Love," 
which  is,  to  me,  the  most  beautiful  of  his  paintings. 
Hebert  had  got  away  from  his  own  gorgeous  traditions 
altogether  and  had  painted  with  true  inspiration.  The 
girl's  body  was  like  a  slender  reed  of  flame,  just  hovering 
on  earth  before  rising  to  Heaven. 

There  was  every  year  an  exhibition,  at  the  French 
Academy,  of  the  work  of  the  students,  who,  having  won 
the  "  Prix  de  Rome  "  in  Paris,  were  privileged  to  study 
in  Rome  for  three  years  at  the  expense  of  the  French 
Government.  Unfortunately  for  the  attractiveness  of 
the  exhibition,  it  was  incumbent  on  the  students  to  intro- 
duce one  or  more  nude  figures  into  their  paintings  to 
show  what  progress  they  were  making  in  anatomical 
drawing.  The  more  zealous  ones  would  sometimes  cover 
a  fifteen-foot  canvas  with  a  crowd  of  nude  warriors  in 
every  stress  of  effort  that  the  most  violent  conflict  could 
call  forth,  the  copious  bloodshed  depicted  demonstrating, 
to  a  thoughtful  mind,  the  young  painter's  feelings  towards 
the  strict  and  exigent  judges  who  were  to  pronounce  upon 
his  merits.  I  remember  a  "  Rape  of  the  Sabines,"  where 
some  rather  dandified  Roman  robbers  were  taking  no  end 
of  trouble  to  possess  themselves  of  a  mob  of  hugCj  beefy 

133 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

viragos  who  were  kicking  and  struggling  with  all  their 
might  —  creatures  whom  no  practical  man  would  attempt 
for  a  moment  to  bring  into  his  home. 

But,  once  free  from  the  drill  of  training,  the  French 
painters  of  those  days  gave  us  some  very  charming  and 
poetical  productions.  One  of  my  favourite  artists  was 
Hamon,  a  man  whose  fancies  were  usually  as  delicate  and 
elusive  as  thistledown  floating  on  a  moonbeam.  He  saw 
everything  through  dawnlight  or  twilight;  his  nymphs  and 
loves,  hovering  over  flowers,  painting  the  morning- 
glories,  sowing  white  stars  for  lilies  and  golden  ones  for 
honeysuckles,  were  too  ethereal  to  be  quite  human,  too 
alluring  to  be  all  spiritual  —  but  exquisite  beyond  words. 
Yet  he  too  painted  one  serious  picture  which,  once  seen, 
could  never  be  forgotten.  It  was  called  "  Le  triste 
Rivage."  In  the  foreground  rolled  the  inky  Styx,  with 
Charon,  sitting,  dark  and  saturninely  indifferent,  in  his 
skiff,  oars  shipped  ready  to  put  out  as  soon  as  the  craft 
should  be  full.  And  to  it,  down  a  narrow  canyon  be- 
tween high  granite  walls,  pressed  a  stream  of  humanity, 
old  men  and  youths,  kings  and  pontiffs  and  beggars,  moth- 
ers with  their  babies  in  their  arms,  young  beauties  in  all 
the  pomp  of  silk  and  pearls,  sages  with  calm  sapient 
eyes,  and  naked  criminals  dragging  their  chains,  not  one 
conscious  of  any  presence  but  his  own  —  the  awful  lone- 
liness of  death  stamped  on  every  face  —  yet  all  crowding 
and  pushing  forward  to  the  narrow  beach  and  the  wait- 
ing boat  —  every  eye  strained  to  catch  some  glimpse  of 
the  land  that  lay,  shrouded  in  darkness,  on  the  other  side. 
It  made  one  think. 

Talking  of  pictures,  I  must  speak  of  one  that  my  sister 
and  I  saw  in  Munich  or  Dresden,  in  1867,  I  think,  a  year 
which  was  considered  remarkably  rich  in  good  modern 

134 


THE  END  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 

exhibitions  abroad  —  where,  by  the  way,  the  average  was 
immeasurably  higher  than  I  ever  found  it  at  the  Academy 
shows  in  London.  This  that  we  fell  in  love  with  was  a 
painting  of  a  Sphinx  —  a  great  white  marble  creature 
with  globed  breasts  and  a  face  of  bestial  beauty,  cold  as 
ice.  She  crouched  on  her  high  pedestal  in  a  tangle  of 
white  roses  flooded  with  moonlight.  A  young  man,  little 
more  than  a  boy,  was  falling  back  from  her,  his  ashy 
face,  sublime  in  death,  still  transfigured  with  the  mortal 
ecstasy  of  her  kiss;  and  her  pitiless  marble  talons  were 
yet  clutching  his  body.  I  wish  I  could  remember  the  name 
of  the  painter.  He  must  have  been  a  true  poet. 


135 


CHAPTER   IX 

ST.  CECILIA 

Persecution  Result  of  Covetousness — Steady  Growth  of  Christianity — 
Story  of  Saint  Cecilia — Dress  of  a  Patrician  Woman — A  Roman 
Marriage — Cecilia's  Consecration — Apparition  of  St.  Paul — Cecilia's 
Guardian  Angel — Conversion  of  Two  Roman  Nobles — Slaughter  of 
Christians — A  Declaration  of  Faith — Condemnation  of  the  Nobles. 

TIME  passes  on;  madmen  and  sages,  dolts  and  fight- 
ers succeed  one  another  on  the  Imperial  Throne, 
and  try  to  hold  together  such  rags  of  the  Purple  as  are 
left  to  them;  one  and  all  agree  in  looking  upon  Chris- 
tianity as  a  pestilential  fad,  to  be  stamped  out  by  any 
means  that  come  to  hand.  Some  institute  official  persecu- 
tions, some  merely  leave  the  governors  of  cities  and  prov- 
inces to  deal  with  the  pest  according  to  their  own  ideas. 
Even  the  most  careless  or  the  most  indulgent  never  re- 
voke the  ancient  edicts  of  proscription,  and  these  edicts 
are  always  there  in  reserve  to  strengthen  the  hand  of 
any  man  in  authority,  who,  for  his  own  ends,  desires  to 
destroy  and  confiscate.  For  it  must  be  remembered  that 
in  the  Roman  Empire,  from  the  First  to  the  Fourth  Cen- 
tury, even  as  in  England  under  Henry  and  Elizabeth  and 
their  successors,  persecution  was  mostly  the  result  of 
covetousness,  and  that  the  insane  law  adjudging  the  prop- 
erty of  the  condemned  to  those  who  procured  their  con- 
viction was  the  same  in  both  cases  and  constituted  an 
appeal  to  selfish  passions  far  too  strong  to  go  unused. 

The  more  energetic  or  less  vicious  of  the  Emperors 
spent  but  little  time  in  Rome  itself  after  the  middle  of 

136 


ST.  CECILIA 

the  Second  Century;  the  safety  of  the  Empire,  surrounded 
by  a  fringe  of  enemies  and  barbarians,  constantly  required 
their  presence  elsewhere,  and  so  the  supreme  municipal 
power  fell  almost  completely  into  the  hands  of  the  gov- 
ernors, men  who  had  rarely  reached  that  prominence 
honestly  and  who  made  haste  to  reap  their  private  har- 
vest as  rapidly  as  possible.  Such  an  one  was  a  certain 
Turcius  Almachius  who  became  the  Prefect  of  the  city 
under  Alexander  Severus  in  the  early  part  of  the  Third 
Century.  Alexander  is  generally  described  as  a  fair- 
minded  and  indulgent  man,  who,  though  he  permitted  the 
edicts  of  proscription  to  remain  on  the  statute  books,  had 
no  personal  hostility  to  the  Christians  and  did  not  con- 
sider that  their  existence  constituted  a  menace  to  the 
State.  Perhaps  he  thought  enough  had  been  done  already 
to  annihilate  their  claims,  and  believed  that  the  "  super- 
stition," as  it  was  called,  would  die  a  natural  death.  And, 
all  the  time,  Christianity  was  growing  to  be  a  great  force, 
nullifying  the  sentence  of  death  pronounced  upon  it,  by 
the  solid  irresistible  pressure  of  its  own  vitality,  even  as 
the  tender  shoot  sprung  from  an  acorn  will  at  last  rend 
and  shatter  the  heavy  tombstone  beneath  which  it  lay. 

This  steady  yet  gentle  growth  of  Christianity  during 
the  hundred  and  eighty  years  which  had  passed  between 
the  date  of  St.  Peter's  coming  to  Rome  and  that  of  the 
accession  of  Alexander  Severus,  is  vividly  illustrated  in 
the  fact  that  various  wealthy  pagan  parents  of  the  latter 
epoch  did  nothing  to  oppose  the  Christian  education  of 
their  children  when  accident  or  the  designs  of  Providence 
rendered  such  education  possible.  One  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  even  they  realised  that  Christianity  taught  the 
boys  and  girls  to  be  very  virtuous  and  obedient  children, 
from  whom  they  would  always  receive  the  highest  meas- 

137 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

ure  of  filial  love  and  duty.  So  it  was  that  the  only  daugh- 
ter of  the  noble  Cecilius,  one  of  the  few  representatives 
left  of  the  true  aristocracy  of  better  times,  was  brought 
up  from  her  infancy  in  the  Christian  faith.  We  are  not 
told  who  her  teacher  was  —  perhaps  some  poor  slave, 
who  thus  conferred  on  her  master's  family  an  honour 
before  which  all  those  of  noble  ancestry  and  vast  pos- 
sessions were  destined  to  pale,  the  honour  of  giving  one 
of  her  most  illustrious  martyrs  to  the  Church. 

The  maiden  Cecilia  was  so  beautiful,  so  good,  so  ac- 
complished, and  withal  such  a  loving,  docile  daughter, 
that  it  must  have  been  with  a  great  pang  at  heart  that 
her  father  and  mother  saw  the  hour  approach  in  which 
she  must  leave  them  for  the  house  of  the  husband  they 
had  chosen  for  her,  the  young  Valerianus,  a  fit  mate  in 
every  way  for  their  dear  child,  in  her  parents'  eyes.  But 
to  Cecilia  their  decision  brought  great  fear  and  perplex- 
ity. Valerianus  was  all  that  they  believed  him  to  be 
—  noble,  upright,  kind-hearted,  a  distinguished  officer, 
with  a  heart  as  clean  as  his  countenance  was  beautiful  — 
but  Cecilia  had  long  ago  vowed  her  life  to  God;  the 
Pontiff,  St.  Urban,  had  approved  of  her  high  choice, 
and  she  had  been  assured  by  her  Guardian  Angel  —  con- 
stantly visible  to  her  pure  eyes  in  daily  life  —  that  God 
had  accepted  the  sacrifice  and  would  never  permit  her 
love  for  Him  to  be  shared  with  an  earthly  spouse.  Yet 
we,  who  know  less  of  God's  ways  than  did  the  holy  girl, 
read  with  something  like  astonishment  that  Cecilia  ven- 
tured upon  no  open  opposition  to  her  parents'  plans  for 
her.  The  authority  of  a  Roman  father  was  so  supreme 
that  it  would  have  appeared  to  her  an  impiety  to  resist 
it.  That  she  was  consumed  with  anxiety  and  fear,  we 
know,  and  that  she  spent  nights  and  days  in  prayer  to 

138 


ST.  CECILIA 

God,  to  His  Angels,  and  to  the  Blessed  Apostles,  to  pro- 
tect her  from  the  threatened  danger.  No  "  Acts  of  the 
Martyrs  "  are  more  full  and  authentic  than  those  of  St. 
Cecilia,  written  by  those  who  had  known  her  in  life  and 
who  witnessed  her  death.  As  the  dreaded  day  ap- 
proached, she  redoubled  in  fervour,  and,  fearing  her  own 
weakness  in  presence  of  the  young  man  whom  his  high 
spirit,  virtue,  and  beauty  made  her  love  as  a  brother, 
she  fought  down  all  carnal  impulses  by  prayer  and  fast- 
ing (sometimes  for  three  days  together)  and  mortified 
her  flesh  by  wearing  a  hair  shirt  under  her  rich  dress. 

At  last  the  wedding  day  dawned,  and  the  great  pal- 
ace was  all  humming  with  joyous  excitement.  Her 
mother  came  into  Cecilia's  room  to  dress  her  for  her 
marriage.  Her  beautiful  hair  was  braided  in  six  long 
strands,  in  imitation  of  that  of  the  Vestal  Virgins;  her 
family  had  always  clung  to  the  high  ideals  of  ancient 
Rome,  and  no  taint  from  the  deluge  of  luxury  and  vice 
in  which  the  Empire  was  plunged  had  ever  penetrated 
into  their  sternly  guarded  homes.  In  daily  life  we  are 
told  that  Cecilia  went  clothed,  like  other  patrician  ladies, 
in  garments  richly  embroidered  with  gold,  but  on  this, 
the  day  of  her  wedding,  her  mother  put  upon  her  a  robe 
of  plain  home-spun  wool  spotlessly  white,  copied  from 
the  one  woven  by  her  ancestress,  Caia  Cecilia,  hundreds 
of  years  before,  and  which  was  the  original  tunic,  the 
model  upon  which  woman's  costume  was  founded  for 
something  like  a  thousand  years  afterwards.  Good  Ro- 
man women  still  looked  upon  the  wise  and  simple  Tana- 
quil  as  their  pattern  in  all  the  matters  of  domestic  life, 
and  at  the  period  of  which  we  are  speaking  the  Etrurian 
Queen's  spindle  and  distaff  were  still  preserved  among 
the  sacred  insignia  of  the  city.  A  white  woollen  girdle, 

139 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

like  Queen  Tanaquil's,  was  bound  round  Cecilia's  waist, 
and  then  she  was  shrouded  in  the  flame-coloured  veil 
with  which  every  Roman  girl,  noble  or  simple,  covered 
her  face  and  head  when  she  went  to  meet  her  bridegroom. 
The  veil  not  only  signified  maiden  modesty,  but  denoted 
the  firm  constancy  with  which  the  bride  was  prepared  to 
cling  to  her  husband.  It  was  originally  the  badge  of  the 
women  of  the  Flaminia,  a  race  which,  some  four 
hundred  years  before  St.  Cecilia's  day,  held  the  Catholic 
belief  as  to  the  inviolability  of  marriage,  and  prohibited 
divorce.  The  "  Flammeum,"  as  the  flame-coloured  veil 
was  called,  remained,  for  this  reason,  in  use  at  Chris- 
tian weddings,  until,  at  any  rate,  the  Fourth  Century, 
when  St.  Ambrose  spoke  of  it  in  his  treatise  on 
"  Virginity." 

But  Cecilia's  marriage  was  a  purely  pagan  ceremony, 
the  first  at  which  she  had  ever  been  obliged  to  assist. 
Wine  and  milk  were  offered  to  the  gods,  and  she  raised 
her  heart  to  the  one  true  God,  renewing  the  offer  of  her 
whole  being  to  Him;  the  cake,  "  the  symbol  of  alliance," 
was  broken  and  shared,  her  hand  was  placed  in  the 
hand  of  her  ardent  bridegroom,  and  they  were  now  man 
and  wife.  As  the  sun  sank  behind  the  Janiculum  Hill, 
the  bride  was  conducted,  with  great  pomp  and  rejoicing, 
to  the  dwelling  of  her  husband,  across  the  Tiber,  now 
the  Church  of  St.  Cecilia  in  Trastevere  that  we  all  know 
so  well. 

All  the  way,  through  the  songs  and  music,  Cecilia 
prayed  in  her  heart  that  she  might  be  protected,  and  be 
helped  to  keep  her  vow;  brighter  than  the  numberless 
torches  carried  in  the  procession  shone  her  faith  in  God, 
who  has  never  forsaken  His  own  when  they  called  upon 
Him.  Valerianus  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  stately  pil- 

140 


ST.  CECILIA 

lared  portico,  all  decorated  with  rich  white  tapestry  and 
strewn  with  flowers.  Here  the  second  plighting  of  their 
bond  took  place,  after  the  ancient  Roman  custom. 

"  Who  art  thou?  "  asked  the  bridegroom,  as  the  bride 
first  stepped  on  the  portico. 

"  Where  thou  art  Caius,  I  will  be  Caia,"  Cecilia  re- 
plied, in  the  invariable  formula,  which,  in  her  case,  was 
a  double  assurance,  since  she  was  directly  descended  from 
the  noble  Caia  Cecilia,  the  type  and  standard  for  all  good 
wives.  To  her  was  then  presented,  first,  clear  water, 
the  emblem  of  purity,  and  then  a  key,  symbolic  of  the  care 
she  must  have  of  the  household  and  its  goods.  After 
that  she  sate  down  for  a  moment  on  a  fleece  intended  to 
remind  her  that  she  must  work  with  her  hands;  and,  these 
ceremonies  over,  the  family  and  the  guests  accompanied 
the  newly  married  ones  into  the  dining-hall  and  the  wed- 
ding banquet  went  merrily  forward  to  the  sound  of  music. 
Music  was  Cecilia's  own  language,  but  she  had  always 
used  her  sweet  voice  to  sing  the  praises  of  the  one  true 
God.  Now  she  "  sang  to  Him  what  was  in  her  heart " 
and  ceased  not  to  pray.  When  all  was  over  and  the 
guests  withdrew,  the  chosen  band  of  matrons  led  Cecilia 
to  the  door  of  the  sumptuous  chamber,  perfumed,  full 
of  flowers,  dimly  lighted,  where  her  splendid  passionate 
lover  would  come  to  make  her  his  own. 

Who  cannot  feel  the  awe  and  thrill  of  that  moment, 
the  choking  of  heart  with  which  the  maiden  listened  for 
Valerianus'  footsteps,  the  fear  and  the  hope,  the  sub- 
lime trust  in  God,  yet  the  full  realisation  of  the  struggle 
to  come? 

Valerianus  entered,  and  came  towards  his  bride,  and 
Cecilia  with  great  gentleness  said:  "  Oh,  most  sweet  and 
most  beloved  youth,  there  is  a  secret  which  I  must  confide 

141 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

to  thee  if  now  thou  wilt  swear  sacredly  to  respect  it." 
Valerianus  promised,  very  solemnly,  that  he  would  for- 
ever hold  secret  what  she  was  about  to  tell  him,  and 
Cecilia  continued :  "  I  am  under  the  care  of  an  Angel 
whom  God  has  appointed  protector  of  my  virginity.  If 
thou  shouldst  violate  it,  his  fury  will  be  enkindled  against 
thee,  and  thou  wilt  fall  a  victim  to  his  vengeance.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  thou  wilt  respect  it,  he  will  bestow 
on  thee  his  love  and  obtain  for  thee  many  blessings." 

Valerianus  was  greatly  astonished  and  agitated,  but 
Divine  Grace  was  already  working  in  his  heart,  and  he 
replied:  "Cecilia,  if  thou  desirest  that  I  should  believe 
thee,  let  me  see  this  Angel.  Then,  if  I  recognise  him  as 
truly  an  Angel  of  God,  I  will  do  as  thou  hast  asked  me. 
But,  if  I  find  thou  lovest  another  man,  both  him  and  thee 
I  will  slay  with  my  own  sword." 

With  calm  and  heavenly  authority,  Cecilia  replied:  "  If 
thou  wilt  follow  my  counsel,  Valerianus,  if  thou  wilt  con- 
sent to  be  purified  in  the  fountain  of  eternal  life,  if  thou 
wilt  believe  in  the  one  true  and  living  God,  thou  shalt 
behold  my  Guardian  Angel." 

•  Eagerly  Valerianus  cried,  "  And  who  will  purify  me, 
that  I  may  see  him?  " 

"  There  is  a  holy  old  man  who  thus  purifies  mortals," 
she  said. 

"  And  where  shall  I  find  him?  "  Valerianus  asked. 

In  Cecilia's  reply  to  this  question  we  have  a  wonder- 
fully vivid  picture  of  Christian  life  in  Rome  at  that 
time: 

"  Thou  must  go  out  of  the  city  by  the  Appian  Way  as 
far  as  the  third  milestone.  There  thou  wilt  find  some 
poor  beggars  who  will  ask  an  alms  of  thee.  I  have  always 
taken  care  of  them,  and  they  well  know  my  secret.  Give 

142 


ST.  CECILIA 

them  my  blessing  and  say:  '  Cecilia  sends  me  to  you  that 
you  may  conduct  me  to  the  holy  old  man,  for  I  have  a 
secret  message  which  I  must  bring  to  him.'  And  thou, 
Valerianus,  when  thou  art  in  the  presence  of  Urban,  re- 
late to  him  all  my  words,  and  he  will  purify  thee  and 
clothe  thee  in  new  white  garments,  and  then,  when  thou 
returnest  to  this  chamber,  thou  shalt  see  the  holy  Angel, 
who  will  evermore  be  thy  friend  and  obtain  for  thee  all 
that  thou  shalt  ask  of  him." 

Valerianus  believed.  The  innocent,  yet  earthly  love, 
which  a  few  moments  earlier  had  fired  his  heart,  was 
transfigured  into  a  heavenly  flame  which  aspired  to  God. 
Without  an  instant's  delay  he  set  out,  alone,  on  foot,  and 
in  the  dead  of  night  —  his  wedding  night  —  to  traverse 
the  whole  city  and  miles  of  the  solitary  road  beyond,  to 
find  the  dispenser  of  Grace.  All  was  as  Cecilia  had  told 
him;  the  beggars  gladly  obeyed  her  commands  and  led 
him  to  the  refuge  where  Urban  prayed  and  whence  he 
governed  the  Church.  And  what  a  revelation  it  must 
have  been  to  the  brilliant  young  officer  to  discover,  con- 
cealed beneath  the  ground  over  which  he  must  often  have 
led  his  company  of  cavalry  in  all  their  pomp  of  golden 
helmets  and  shining  armour,  the  subterranean  city  of  the 
Christian  Faith! 

Throwing  himself  at  Urban's  feet,  Valerianus  poured 
out  his  story,  and  the  venerable  Servant  of  God  was  so 
overcome  with  joy  that  he  fell  on  his  knees,  and,  while 
tears  of  gratitude  coursed  down  his  cheeks,  thus  gave 
thanks  for  the  noble  young  soul  called  to  great  salvation; 

"  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  sower  of  chaste  counsels,  receive 
the  fruit  of  that  which  Thou  didst  sow  in  Cecilia !  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  good  Shepherd,  Cecilia  Thy  handmaid  hath 
served  Thee  like  a  faithful  *  lamb.  The  spouse  who  was 

*  "  Argumentosa  "  —  that  which  is  proven. 
143 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

like  an  untamed  lion,  she  has  made  into  a  most  gentle 
lamb,  for  he  who  is  here,  did  he  not  believe,  would  not 
have  come.  Therefore,  Lord,  open  the  gate  of  his  heart 
to  Thy  Words,  that  he  may  know  Thee  for  his  Creator, 
and  that  he  may  renounce  the  Devil  with  his  pomps  and 
idols." 

Urban  remained  long  in  prayer;  Valerianus  was  deeply 
touched.  Suddenly  a  venerable  old  man,  with  garments 
white  as  snow,  appeared  before  them,  holding  in  his  hand 
a  book  written  in  characters  of  gold.  It  was  the  great 
Apostle  St.  Paul.  Valerianus,  half  dead  with  terror, 
fell  prostrate  on  the  ground.  The  Apostle  gently  raised 
him  up,  saying:  "  Read  this  book  and  believe.  Thou  wilt 
then  be  worthy  of  being  purified,  and  of  beholding  the 
Angel  whom  Cecilia  promised  that  thou  shouldst  see." 

The  young  man  raised  his  eyes  to  the  book  and  read, 
in  the  golden  letters,  these  words  —  as  we  of  to-day  read 
them  when  we  raise  our  eyes  under  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's:  "One  Lord,  one  Faith,  one  Baptism;  one  God 
and  Father  of  all,  Who  is  above  all,  through  all,  and  in 
us  all!" 

The  Apostle  asked  him,  "  Believest  thou  this,  or  dost 
thou  yet  doubt?" 

And  Valerianus,  with  his  heart  in  the  cry,  exclaimed, 
'  There  is  nothing  else  more  truly  to  be  believed  under 
Heaven!" 

Then  he  found  himself  alone  with  Urban;  the  holy 
apparition  had  vanished.  Urban  led  him  to  the  baptismal 
Font,  washed  his  soul  from  every  stain  of  sin,  gave  him 
the  Food  of  Angels,  called  down  the  Holy  Ghost  upon 
him  to  clothe  him  in  strength  and  virtue,  put  over  his  rich 
robes  the  white  garment  of  the  Neophyte,  and  bade  him 
return  to  his  bride. 

144 


ST.  CECILIA 

The  night  had  passed,  and  the  sun  had  risen  upon  the 
city  as  he  made  his  way  back  through  the  streets  where 
so  many  were  dressed  in  white  in  those  days  that  his  mys- 
tical garment  attracted  no  unusual  attention.  All  was 
quiet  in  the  great  palace  across  the  river.  The  slaves 
were  moving  silently  about  their  work  so  as  not  to  dis- 
turb the  slumbers  of  their  master  and  mistress  in  the 
remote  chamber  whence  no  sound  had  yet  issued,  and  if 
some  looked  up  in  surprise  as  Valerianus  passed  in,  none 
would  dare  to  question  him  as  to  his  early  walk.  Swiftly 
he  went  on,  and  parted  the  hangings  of  the  entrance  to 
the  chamber  where  Cecilia  had  knelt  motionless  in  prayer 
through  the  long  night.  There  he  paused  in  awe  and 
joy,  for,  standing  close  to  her  was  the  Angel  of  the 
Lord,  his  wings  effulgent  plumes,  his  countenance  a  flame 
of  radiance,  while  in  his  hands  he  held  two  crowns,  flash- 
ing with  roses  and  snowy  with  lilies. 

These  he  gently  placed  on  the  bowed  young  heads,  say- 
ing, in  tones  of  such  music  as  Valerianus  had  never  heard 
before :  "  Guard  these  crowns  by  purity  of  heart  and  sanc- 
tity of  body,  for  I  have  brought  them  to  you  from  the 
Paradise  of  God;  and  this  shall  be  a  sign  to  you  —  never 
shall  their  beauty  fade  nor  their  sweet  fragrance  dimin- 
ish, nor  shall  they  be  visible  to  others  save  such  as  have 
pleased  God  by  their  purity  as  you  have  pleased  Him. 
And  since  thou,  Valerianus,  didst  consent  to  the  course 
of  chastity,  Christ  the  Son  of  God  hath  sent  me  to 
thee,  that  thou  shouldst  ask  for  whatever  thou  most 
desirest." 

Valerianus  threw  himself  at  the  Angel's  feet,  and  thus 
besought  him:  "Nothing  in  this  life  is  sweeter  to  me 
than  the  love  of  my  only  brother,  and  it  is  terrible  to 
me  that  I,  being  liberated,  must  see  my  brother  still  in 

145 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

danger  of  perdition.  This  one  prayer  will  I  set  before 
every  other  petition,  and  beseech  God  that  He  will  deign 
to  deliver  my  brother  Tiburtius  as  He  has  delivered  me, 
and  that  He  will  make  us  both  perfect  in  the  confession 
of  His  Name." 

At  Valerianus'  request,  the  Angel's  face  was  transfig- 
ured with  rapture.  "  Since  thou  hast  asked  this,"  he 
replied,  "  which  Christ  desires  to  grant  more  than  thou 
to  receive,  even  as  by  His  servant  Cecilia  thou  wast  won 
to  Him,  so  by  thee  shall  thy  brother  be  won,  and  both 
shall  obtain  the  Martyr's  palm." 

Then  the  Angel  left  them  and  returned  to  Heaven, 
and  Cecilia  and  Valerianus  remained  together,  their  hearts 
almost  breaking  with  joy.  For  long  hours  they  talked 
of  heavenly  things,  and  then,  towards  the  afternoon, 
their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
Tiburtius,  the  gay,  loving  younger  brother,  who  declared 
that  he  had  stayed  away  long  enough  and  must  see  his 
dear  Valerianus!  Advancing  towards  his  new  sister,  he 
bent  down  and  lightly  kissed  her  hair,  and  then  ex- 
claimed, in  delight  at  the  exquisite  fragrance  emanating 
from  it:  "  Cecilia,  I  am  full  of  wonder  to  know  whence, 
at  this  season  of  the  year,  comes  this  perfume  of  roses 
and  lilies?  For,  even  if  I  held  real  roses  and  real  lilies 
in  my  hands,  they  could  not  diffuse  such  sweet  odours  on 
my  senses.  I  declare  to  you  that  I  feel  as  refreshed  as 
if  I  had  just  received  new  being!  " 

It  was  Valerianus  who  answered:  "  The  enjoyment  of 
this  fragrance,  which  has  been  granted  to  thee  at  my 
prayer,  Tiburtius,  shall,  if  thou  wilt  now  believe,  be 
surpassed  by  the  joy  of  seeing  these  heavenly  flowers 
and  of  knowing  Him  Whose  Blood  flows  red  as  the 

146 


ST.  CECILIA 

rose,  Whose  Flesh  is  white  as  lilies.  We  two  wear 
crowns,  invisible  to  thee  now,  woven  of  flowers  dazzling 
as  purple,  purer  than  snow." 

At  these  words  the  first  faint  dawn  of  things  spiritual 
broke  on  the  mind  of  Tiburtius,  but  there  was  a  struggle 
before  it  could  pierce  the  veil  of  contented  materialism 
that  had  enveloped  him  all  his  life.  "  Art  thou  dreaming, 
Valerianus?  "  he  cried,  "  or  is  it  possible  that  these  things 
are  truth?" 

"  We  have  dreamed  all  our  lives,  brother,"  was  the 
reply.  "  Now  we  have  awaked,  to  see  the  truth." 

The  colloquy  goes  on;  Valerianus,  with  all  the  ardour 
of  his  recent  illumination  upon  him,  trying  to  impart  to 
his  brother  that  which  he  learned  but  a  few  hours  earlier. 
Cecilia  has  kept  silence  before  the  quick  flow  of  question 
and  answer,  but  at  a  given  moment  she  intervenes,  and, 
with  the  calm  majesty  that  so  singularly  invests  all  her 
words  and  actions,  says:  "It-is  to  me,  dear  Tiburtius, 
that  you  should  put  these  questions.  Valerianus  is  new 
in  the  Faith  —  I  have  known  all  its  doctrines  from  my 
childhood."  And  then  comes  that  magnificent  unfold- 
ing of  the  truths  of  Christianity  which  sounds  more  like 
the  authoritative  teaching  of  one  of  the  Fathers  of  the 
Church  than  the  profession  of  faith  of  a  young  girl. 
No  point  seems  left  in  doubt;  it  is  a  luminous  paraphrase 
of  the  Creed,  adapted,  with  sublime  tact  and  wisdom,  to 
the  requirements  of  the  youth  nurtured  in  merely  pagan 
piety,  surrounded  with  everything  that  could  make  this 
life  attractive,  and  utterly  unconscious  of  the  immortality 
that  was  in  him. 

That  breaks  on  him  as  a  new  light,  undreamt  of  be- 
fore, but  he  does  not  yield  at  once  like  Valerianus.  He 
cries  out  in  revolt  when  told  that  in  order  to  be  purified 

147 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

he  must  take  the  same  road,  cast  himself  at  the  feet  of 
a  poor  proscribed  old  man  hiding  underground  among 
the  tombs  of  despised  victims.  "  But  there  is  a  price 
set  on  that  old  man's  head,"  he  urges,  "  and,  if  we  are 
known  to  hold  any  intercourse  with  him,  we  shall  be 
tortured  and  killed,  and  shall  lose  our  lives  here  for  a 
hope  which  may  be  vain,  after  all!  " 

Cecilia  had  convinced  him  of  the  folly  of  worshipping 
idols  made,  as  she  said,  "  of  stone  and  metal  dug  and 
fashioned  by  criminals  " ;  but  life,  life  as  he  knew  it,  was 
too  sweet  and  real  to  be  risked  for  anything  less  than 
the  certainty  of  a  better  one.  "  Is  it  possible,"  he  breaks 
out,  "  that  there  can  be  another  life  after  this  one  ?  Never 
have  I  heard  of  such  a  doctrine!  " 

Few  in  Rome  had.  The  very  Barbarians  held  some 
misty  hope  of  future  reward,  some  half-formed  fear  of 
future  punishment;  but  the  masters  of  the  world  then, 
like  so  many  of  its  masters  now,  had  sunk  so  deep  in 
materialism  that  atheism  was  the  only  doctrine  suited  to 
their  voluntary  blindness,  and  even  gallant,  honest  young 
men  like  Tiburtius  and  his  brother  had  not  a  suspicion 
that  any  other  could  exist.  Yet,  because  they  were  hon- 
est, and  their  hearts  were  pure,  they  did  not  turn  their 
eyes  away  when  the  light  was  shown  them.  Cecilia  went 
on  to  explain  the  truths  of  our  Redemption,  her  dis- 
course evidently  intended  not  only  to  enlighten  Tiburtius, 
but  to  amplify  and  perfect  for  Valerianus  the  instruction 
received  from  Urban  during  the  preceding  night.  At 
last  Tiburtius,  all  his  doubts  set  at  rest,  threw  himself, 
with  many  tears,  at  her  feet,  crying:  "If  ever  again  I 
consider  this  present  life  worth  a  thought  or  a  wish, 
let  me  never  obtain  life  eternal!  Let  fools  hold  to  the 
insensate  pleasures  that  pass  away  —  I,  who  have  lived 

148 


ST.  CECILIA 

until  to-day  without  an  object,  will  never  henceforth  live 
without  one."  Then,  appealing  to  Valerianus,  he  im- 
plored: "  Have  mercy  on  me,  dearest  brother,  for  I  can 
bear  no  waiting.  I  fear  delay.  I  cannot  carry  this 
weight !  I  beseech  thee,  take  me  to  the  man  of  God,  that, 
purifying  me,  he  may  make  me  a  partaker  of  the  other 
life!" 

Gladly  Valerianus  led  him  to  Urban,  who  received 
him  tenderly,  baptised  him  the  next  day,  and  kept  him  at 
his  side  for  seven  days  following,  during  which  the 
generous  boy's  ardour  was  inflamed  by  beholding  the 
crowded  tombs  of  the  martyrs,  all  marked  by  palm 
branches  in  sign  of  victory.  He  returned  to  the  palace 
by  the  Tiber,  a  giant  in  strength,  only  desiring  the  hour 
when  he  should  be  called  upon  to  confess  Christ  before 
men.  And  then  began  that  beautiful  life  of  the  three 
Saints,  which  lasted  indeed  but  a  few  months,  but  which 
must  have  been  like  a  foretaste  of  Heaven,  a  life  all 
full  of  love  of  God  and  charity  to  man.  Cecilia  gave 
much  time  and  most  of  her  wealth  to  the  poor  Chris- 
tians, among  whom  were  great  numbers  of  widows  and 
orphans  deprived  of  their  bread-winner  by  the  ferocity 
of  Almachius,  who  boasted,  if  I  remember  rightly,  that 
during  his  Praetorship  he  had  caused  the  death  of  more 
than  five  thousand  Christians  of  the  poorer  sort.  The 
chief  characteristics  of  Turcius  Almachius  were  rapacity 
and  cruelty.  While  Alexander  Severus  was  actually  in 
Rome,  the  Emperor's  presence,  and  his  known  dislike 
of  bloodshed  in  times  of  peace,  acted  as  a  salutary  curb 
on  the  inclinations  of  the  Prefect  of  the  city;  but  in  the 
year  230  Alexander  was  absent  for  a  long  time,  appar- 
ently in  Persia,  since  some  medals  commemorating  his 
victories  there  were  struck  with  this  date.  The  civil 

149 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

power  reposed  entirely  in  the  hands  of  Almachius,  and 
he  made  haste  to  use  it  to  satisfy  his  virulent  hatred  of 
the  Christians.  In  this  he  found  powerful  allies  among 
the  people,  whose  feelings  against  the  new  religion  had 
been  fomented  by  a  thousand  calumnies,  amusingly  like 
those  which  the  enemies  of  the  Church  pay  such  large 
sums  to  have  circulated  now.  No  sooner  had  the  Em- 
peror departed  than  the  storm  of  the  Prefect's  fury  broke 
out;  the  Christians,  chiefly  poor  people  with  no  one  to 
defend  them,  were  apprehended,  tortured,  and  killed  in 
enormous  numbers.  The  places  of  execution  ran  day 
after  day  with  their  blood.  But  the  rage  of  their  offi- 
cial persecutor  was  not  satisfied  with  inflicting  merely  suf- 
fering and  death.  Knowing  the  great  reverence  with 
which  the  followers  of  Christ  regarded  the  bodies  of 
the  martyrs,  he  issued  an  edict  forbidding  their  burial. 
They  were  to  lie  where  they  fell,  and  whosoever  should 
attempt  to  give  them  sepulture  was  to  be  condemned  to 
share  their  fate. 

So  frightful  was  the  slaughter  at  this  time  that  the 
old  underground  cemeteries  were  all  choked  with  dead; 
but  St.  Calixtus,  the  predecessor  of  Urban,  had  fore- 
seen, or  had  perceived  by  prophetic  revelation,  the  com- 
ing necessity,  and  had  prepared  a  vast  new  catacomb 
adjoining  the  older  ones  along  the  Appian  Way.  It  had 
not  long  to  wait  for  its  glorious  occupants.  The  Chris- 
tians regarded  the  burial  of  the  martyrs  as  a  most  solemn 
duty,  from  which  no  danger  to  themselves  was  ever 
allowed  to  deter  them.  Those  who  had  money  frequently 
paid  great  sums  to  obtain  the  mangled  remains,  which 
they  lovingly  gathered  together,  wrapped  in  spices  and 
perfumes,  and  carried,  at  the  risk  of  their  lives,  into 
the  sacred  vaults  of  the  Catacombs.  Great  numbers  paid 

150 


ST.  CECILIA 

for  their  devotion  with  their  blood,  but  others  always 
came  forward  to  take  their  places. 

What  was  the  surprise  of  the  poor  hunted  Christians 
to  behold,  in  that  spring  of  230,  two  of  the  noblest  and 
most  brilliant  young  officers  in  Rome  present  themselves 
day  after  day  to  assist  in  this  perilous  duty!  With  all 
the  courage  of  their  rank  and  profession,  Valerianus  and 
iTiburtius  devoted  themselves  to  saving  the  holy  bodies 
from  profanation  and  spent  their  wealth  lavishly  in 
bestowing  on  them  funeral  honours.  Cecilia  had  long 
done  all  she  could  to  assist  in  the  pious  work,  but  the 
restrictions  placed  on  noble  ladies  had  so  far  saved  her 
from  attracting  the  baneful  notice  of  the  Prefect.  It 
was  otherwise  with  Valerianus  and  his  brother.  They 
were  well  known  and  could  not  pass  unperceived. 
Almachius  was  furious  when  he  heard  of  their  actions. 
He  was  ready  enough  to  persecute  the  poor;  should  the 
Emperor  on  his  return  enquire  into  the  sacrifice  of  so 
many  thousands  of  his  subjects,  the  old  excuse  could  be 
given  —  either  they  had  raised  a  sedition,  or  else  the 
people  had  turned  against  them  and  the  authorities  had 
not  been  able  to  control  the  popular  fury.  But  when  it 
came  to  wealthy  young  officers  of  the  Guard,  everywhere 
respected  and  admired,  a  very  different  sort  of  enquiry 
would  be  instituted,  and  the  Prefect  would  probably  be 
severely  reprimanded,  if  not  actually  punished,  for  hav- 
ing laid  hands  upon  them. 

Yet,  for  his  own  sake,  he  must  see  that  his  orders 
were  respected.  Doubtless  these  fashionable  youths  had 
been  led  away  by  foolish  enthusiasm  and  would  see  rea- 
son when  the  all-powerful  Governor  laid  it  before  them. 
He  would  send  for  them  and  give  them  a  good  lecture; 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

they  would  express  their  regret  at  having  offended  him, 
and  then  he  would  let  them  go. 

Little  he  knew  the  spirit  of  those  gallant  boys !  When 
they  stood  before  him,  he  sought  to  appeal  to  their  pride 
by  asking  them  if  it  were  really  true  that  they,  men  of 
patrician  standing,  were  not  only  squandering  their  for- 
tune on  low-born  wretches,  but  were  actually  giving  their 
dead  bodies  honourable  burial!  Was  it  possible  that 
nobles  had  become  the  accomplices  of  criminals ! 

Tiburtius,  the  younger  and  more  impulsive  of  the 
brothers,  answered  him.  "  Would  to  God,"  he  cried, 
"  that  those  whom  you  call  our  accomplices  would  per- 
mit us  to  become  their  servants !  They  have  obtained 
the  only  reality.  May  we  imitate  their  holiness  and  one 
day  follow  in  their  footsteps  1  " 

This  was  not  what  Almachius  had  expected,  and  he 
tried  to  soothe  and  flatter  the  young  man's  feelings  by 
turning  the  conversation  into  other  channels,  particularly 
by  complimenting  him  on  his  remarkable  resemblance  to 
his  brother;  but  Tiburtius  was  not  to  be  lured  aside.  A 
strange  dialogue  on  the  philosophy  of  Christianity  en- 
sued, and  then  the  Governor,  declaring  that  Tiburtius 
had  lost  his  reason,  smilingly  dismissed  him  and  ad- 
dressed himself,  with  no  better  fortune,  to  Valerianus. 
His  great  object  now  was  to  prevent  the  young  men 
from  making  a  public  profession  of  their  Christianity; 
one  sees  how  the  crafty  middle-aged  man  feared  equally 
the  risk  of  bringing  them  to  punishment  and  that  of 
having  his  supremacy  openly  flouted  before  the  people. 
But  all  his  cowardly  efforts  were  in  vain.  Valerianus,  in 
presence  of  the  multitudes  that  curiosity  or  sympathy  had 
now  gathered  around  him,  boldly  declared  that  there  was 
but  one  true  God,  and  that  those  who  worshipped  idols 

152 


ST.  CECILIA 

made  by  men  were  destined  to  eternal  punishment.  Then, 
the  impossible  happened  to  silence  him.  Almachius  com- 
manded that  he,  the  free-born  Roman  noble,  should  be 
publicly  scourged.  The  sentence  was  executed  on  the 
spot,  Tiburtius  mourning  that  he  did  not  share  it  —  his 
brother  had  preceded  him  in  suffering  for  Christ  1 

The  greatest  excitement  prevailed.  The  sound  of  the 
lead-laden  scourge  tearing  the  martyr's  flesh  filled  the 
air;  a  herald  shouted,  for  the  benefit  of  the  onlookers, 
"  Beware  of  blaspheming  the  gods  and  goddesses !  " 
With  a  great  effort,  Valerianus  made  his  voice  heard 
above  the  tumult.  "  Citizens  of  Rome,"  he  cried,  "  be 
not  discouraged  by  the  sight  of  my  torments  from  con- 
fessing the  truth!  Be  firm  in  your  faith  and  believe  in 
the  one  true,  holy  God !  Destroy  the  false  gods  to  whom 
Almachius  sacrifices,  crush  and  annihilate  them,  for  all 
who  adore  them  will  be  tormented  everlastingly." 

In  spite  of  the  constancy  of  the  brothers,  Almachius, 
frightened  at  the  possible  consequences  of  his  acts,  was 
at  this  point  inclined  to  let  them  go;  but  the  Devil,  in 
the  shape  of  one  Tarquinius,  his  assessor  of  taxes,  man- 
aged to  whisper  in  his  ear:  "  If  you  do  not  condemn  them 
now,  they  will  give  all  their  wealth  to  the  poor,  and  there 
will  be  nothing  left  for  you  —  to  confiscate." 

Instantly  Avarice  sprang  to  her  throne  in  the  ever 
docile  soul  of  Almachius.  With  much  pomp  and  sever- 
ity he  pronounced  sentence  on  the  "  criminals."  They 
were  to  be  led  out  to  the  Pagus  Triopius,  to  the  Temple 
of  Jupiter,  by  the  fourth  milestone  of  the  Appian  Way, 
and  there  commanded  to  offer  incense  to  the  idol.  If 
they  refused,  they  were  to  be  beheaded  and  their  bodies 
left  where  they  should  fall. 


153 


CHAPTER   X 

MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

A  Glorious  Martyrdom — A  Vision  of  Heaven — The  Bodies  of  the  Mar- 
tyrs— Prefect  Incensed  Against  St.  Cecilia — Preparation  for  Death — 
Her  Trial — Her  Victory  and  Martyrdom — The  Miracle  of  Her  Three 
Days'  Ministering — Final  Honours — Martyrdom  of  St.  Urban  and 
His  Companions — Cecilia's  Place  Among  Martyrs — Her  Tomb  in  the 
Catacombs — Pope  PaschaPs  Vision  of  St.  Cecilia — Cecilia's  Restora- 
tion to  Her  Own  Church — History  of  Her  Church — The  Second  Find- 
ing of  Her  Body — Her  Statue. 

AND  Cecilia?  While  the  first  chapter  of  the  glori- 
ous tragedy  was  being  enacted  before  the  tribunal 
of  Almachius,  she  had  been  immersed  in  fervent  prayer 
for  those  she  loved,  asking  not  that  their  lives  should  be 
spared,  but  that  their  faith  should  be  strengthened  and 
that  they  might  come  triumphantly  through  their  ordeal. 
Valerianus,  through  some  Christian  friend,  immediately 
informed  her  of  all  that  was  taking  place.  Still  she 
waited  and  prayed.  The  officer  charged  with  carrying 
out  the  commands  of  Almachius  was  his  notary,  Maxi- 
mus,  a  man  of  upright  life  and  kind  heart.  As  he  led 
the  brothers  away  he  mourned  openly  over  the  terrible 
doom  which  they  had  drawn  down  upon  themselves,  and 
entreated  them  to  reconsider  their  resolutions  and  save 
their  lives,  pointing  out  that  they  were  throwing  away 
all  their  splendid  advantages  of  youth,  wealth,  and  a 
brilliant  future,  for  a  miserable  delusion.  Valerianus, 
filled  with  the  Spirit  of  God,  explained  to  him  the  Chris- 
tian doctrine  of  a  future  life,  which  so  amazed  the  hon- 
est man  that  he  swore,  by  all  he  held  sacred,  that  if  he 

154 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

could  believe  in  eternal  happiness  he  would  sacrifice  every- 
thing on  earth  to  attain  it. 

"  Only  repent  of  your  sins,"  Valerianus  replied,  "  and 
I  promise  you  that  at  the  moment  of  our  death,  the 
Heavens  shall  be  opened  to  you,  and  you  shall  behold 
with  your  own  eyes  the  glory  of  the  Blessed." 

"  I  accept,"  Maximus  answered.  "  May  the  thunder- 
bolts of  Heaven  consume  me  if,  after  you  have  shown 
me  what  you  promise,  I  do  not  confess  the  One  God  who 
has  prepared  another  life  to  follow  this  one !  " 

Now  Valerianus  was  filled  with  a  great  desire  to  see 
Maximus  baptised  before  his  own  death,  so  he  asked 
him  to  delay  the  execution  of  the  sentence  for  a  few 
hours  and  to  conduct  his  prisoners  to  his  own  house, 
where,  as  he  explained,  the  soldiers  could  still  keep 
guard  over  them,  so  that  no  lapse  from  duty  could  be 
laid  to  the  notary's  charge.  Maximus  gladly  consented, 
and  led  the  brothers  and  their  guards  to  his  dwelling  — 
we  are  not  told  where  it  stood  —  and  there  Cecilia  has- 
tened to  rejoin  them.  No  word  is  recorded  of  her  anguish 
at  seeing  her  beloved  Valerianus  all  torn  and  bleeding 
from  the  lashes  of  the  whips.  Surely  she  kissed  and 
washed  the  pitiful  wounds  so  joyously  received  for 
Christ's  sake;  but  this  was  a  time  for  quick  and  cour- 
ageous action,  and  the  one  thought  in  her  mind  as  in 
that  of  her  husband  and  his  brother  was  to  save  as  many 
souls  as  possible  in  this  supreme  hour.  She  hastened  to 
summon  several  priests,  and,  under  cover  of  nightfall, 
brought  them  to  the  house  of  Maximus,  where,  by  this 
time,  many  persons  were  assembled.  The  notary,  his 
entire  family,  and  the  soldiers  under  his  command  lis- 
tened eagerly  to  the  instructions  of  the  priests,  and,  be- 
fore the  first  gleam  of  dawn  tinged  the  sky,  were  all 

'55. 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

baptised.  A  great  chorus  of  thanksgiving  went  up  to 
God.  Not  one  had  been  left  out,  not  a  voice  but  joined 
in  that  paean. 

Then,  the  sun  rose  and  a  great  silence  fell  — "  Facto 
magno  silentio,"  Cecilia  spake,  not  in  words  of  her  own 
choosing  —  she  repeated  that  splendid  battle  cry  of  St. 
Paul:  "Arise,  soldiers  of  Christ  I  Cast  off  the  works 
of  darkness  and  put  on  the  armour  of  light.  You  have 
fought  a  good  fight,  you  have  finished  your  course,  you 
have  kept  the  Faith.  Go  to  receive  the  Crown  of  Life 
which  the  Just  Judge  gives  to  you,  and  not  to  you  only, 
but  to  all  who  love  His  coming!  " 

She,  who  had  opened  to  her  dear  ones  the  gates  of 
life,  now  bade  them  forth  to  death.  No  word  she  spoke 
of  her  own  grief,  of  the  desolation  that  awaited  her  till 
her  own  hour  (not  far  away,  as  she  knew)  should  come. 
We  are  not  told  whether  she  accompanied  the  martyrs  to 
the  place  of  execution.  With  all  her  glorious  valour  she 
was  but  a  young  and  loving  woman,  and  God  may  have 
chosen  to  spare  her  the  last  dreadful  sight,  may  have  led 
her  back  to  her  empty  home  to  pray,  rather  than  out 
to  the  public  road  to  shudder  and  weep. 

Maximus  and  his  soldiers,  praying  also,  led  Valerianus 
and  Tiburtius  over  the  well-known  road  as  far  as  the 
temple  in  the  Pagus  Triopius,  where  the  waiting  priests 
of  Jupiter  commanded  them  to  offer  incense  before  the 
idol.  For  answer,  the  young  men  knelt  down  and  of- 
fered their  necks  to  the  executioner's  sword.  Those  who 
had  been  charged  with  the  cruel  mission  confessed  loudly 
that  they  were  Christians  now,  and  refused  to  perform 
it,  but  others  were  present  who  offered  themselves  as 
substitutes.  A  moment  later  the  two  young  heads  rolled 
on  the  ground,  and  Maximus,  as  Valerianus  had  prom- 

156 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

ised  him,  saw  the  souls  of  the  martyrs  carried  to  Heaven, 
which  was  opened  before  his  eyes,  on  the  wings  of  Angels 
resplendent  as  suns.  He  could  not  contain  the  ecstasy 
with  which  the  sight  had  filled  him,  and  was  now  himself 
consumed  with  the  love  of  God  and  the  desire  to  attain 
to  the  same  glory.  Many  of  the  pagans  who  had  gath- 
ered around  were  converted  on  the  spot,  and  Almachius, 
incensed  beyond  measure,  caused  Maximus  to  be  scourged 
to  death  a  few  days  afterwards. 

The  Christians  obtained  possession  of  the  bodies  of 
Valerianus  and  Tiburtius,  and  Cecilia,  weeping  and  re- 
joicing, received  the  dear  remains,  wrapped  them  in  costly 
silks  with  great  wealth  of  precious  balms,  and  buried 
them  in  the  cemetery  of  Pretextatus  near  the  second  mile- 
stone of  the  Appian  Way.  She  sealed  their  tomb  with 
the  emblems  of  victory,  the  palm  and  crown,  and  returned 
to  the  palace  beyond  the  Tiber  to  await  the  will  of  God 
in  regard  to  herself.  When  she  heard  of  the  martyrdom 
of  Maximus  she  came  forth  to  take  up  his  body,  which 
she  buried  with  her  own  hands  near  those  of  her  husband 
and  his  brother,  and  on  his  tomb  she  caused  to  be  en- 
graved the  symbol  of  resurrection,  the  phoenix  rising 
from  its  own  ashes. 

Her  next  care  was  to  forestall  the  rapacity  of  Al- 
machius by  distributing  all  the  goods  of  Valerianus  to 
the  poor,  a  measure  which  so  inflamed  the  Prefect's  fury 
that  he  began  to  cast  about  for  some  means  of  doing 
away  with  her,  without  arousing  the  ire  of  the  people; 
a  difficult  matter,  since  all  in  Rome,  both  pagans  and 
Christians,  knew  and  admired  her  for  her  noble  birth, 
her  great  beauty,  and  her  many  virtues,  more  especially 
for  her  all-embracing  charity.  The  murder  of  Valerianus 
and  Tiburtius  had  not  pleased  the  populace;  that  of 

157 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Cecilia  might  easily  cause  a  riot;  it  behooved  Almachius 
to  proceed  with  caution.  As  in  the  former  case,  he  felt 
that  her  Christianity,  so  openly  professed  in  the  face 
of  his  thundered  prohibitions,  was  a  direct  affront  to  his 
authority  and  that  she  must  be  forced  to  retract;  yet 
he  feared  the  resentment  of  the  Emperor,  and  also  of 
the  people,  should  he  venture  upon  bringing  her  to  a 
public  trial.  So  he  hit  upon  an  expedient  which,  he 
thought,  would  satisfy  all  parties.  He  sent  some  officers 
to  see  her,  and  to  tell  her  that,  if  she  would  sacrifice  to 
the  gods  in  their  presence,  in  the  privacy  of  her  home, 
the  Governor  would  be  satisfied  and  would  molest  her 
no  further. 

The  officers  very  unwillingly  accepted  the  task  laid 
upon  them,  and,  when  they  found  themselves  face  to 
face  with  Cecilia,  were  so  overcome  by  the  sight  of  her 
calm  and  heavenly  beauty  that  they  could  scarcely  ex- 
plain their  mission.  Cecilia  spoke  to  them  with  great 
gentleness.  She  told  them  that  she  knew  how  their  hearts 
revolted  from  carrying  out  the  impious  designs  of  their 
superior.  She  said  that  she  sorrowed  not  at  all  for  her- 
self, since  she  was  only  too  happy  to  suffer  for  Christ, 
but  that  she  deeply  pitied  them,  who  "  in  the  flower  of 
their  youth  were  condemned  to  obey  the  orders  of  an 
unjust  judge." 

The  young  men  were  cut  to  the  heart  to  see  this  ex- 
quisite girl  (tarn  elegans  -puella) ,  so  noble  and  so  wise, 
inviting  martyrdom,  and  they  besought  her  with  tears 
not  to  "  fling  so  much  beauty  to  Death !  "  But  in  her 
calm,  lucid  way  she  explained  that  to  die  for  Christ  was 
to  renew  youth  forever;  that  to  exchange  mortality  for 
immortality  was  like  giving  up  a  little  handful  of  lead 
to  receive  inexhaustible  treasures  of  purest  gold.  She  saw 

158 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

that  the  scales  were  falling  from  their  eyes,  and,  all 
aflame  to  gain  more  souls  to  Christ,  she  cried,  "  Do  you 
believe  what  I  have  told  you?  "  And  they  replied:  "  We 
believe  Christ  the  Son  of  God  to  be  truly  God,  Who  pos- 
sesses such  a  servant!  " 

Cecilia  had  won  another  victory.  "  Go  now,"  she 
commanded,  "  to  unhappy  Almachius,  and  tell  him  that 
I  pray  him  not  to  hasten  my  passion,  and  then  return 
here  to  my  house  and  you  shall  find  him  who  will  make 
you  sharers  of  Eternal  Life." 

The  few  days'  delay  was  granted,  and  the  officers  re- 
turned joyfully  to  Cecilia's  house.  She  had  at  once  sent 
to  inform  St.  Urban  of  her  approaching  martyrdom,  and 
begged  him  to  come  at  once,  as  many  whom  she  had 
instructed  and  converted  were  desirous  of  receiving  bap- 
tism before  her  death.  The  Pope  hastened  to  her  side 
and  remained  with  her  for  all  that  was  left  of  her  life. 
The  house  became  a  temple  of  prayer  and  praise;  more 
than  four  hundred  persons,  the  officers  of  Almachius  fore- 
most among  them,  were  baptised.  In  order  to  prevent 
the  confiscation  of  her  property,  Cecilia  made  her  will 
devising  her  house  and  all  it  contained  to  a  certain  Gor- 
dian,  "  one  of  her  converts,  a  most  upright  man,"  charg- 
ing him  to  make  of  the  dwelling  where  the  Sacrament 
of  Baptism  had  been  conferred  a  "  Church  of  the  Lord 
forever." 

Then,  when  all  was  accomplished  and  her  work  on 
earth  completed,  Almachius  sent  for  her  to  appear  be- 
fore him  and  answer  the  accusations  brought  against  her. 
Joyfully  she  obeyed.  The  account  of  her  trial  is  very 
remarkable,  evidently  taken  down  on  the  spot  by  some 
one  who  witnessed  it,  and  as  evidently  genuine  not  only 
because  of  the  endorsement  of  contemporaries,  but  be- 

159 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

cause  of  some  curious  allusions  to  customs  prevailing  at 
that  particular  time. 

Too  long  and  diffuse  to  transcribe  here,  the  proceed- 
ings opened  with  the  usual  question,  a  question  regarded 
evidently  as  something  of  a  farce  by  the  onlookers,  since 
all  Rome  knew  of  Cecilia,  and  the  greatest  excitement 
prevailed  in  the  crowd  that  had  assembled  to  see  the 
noble,  delicately  nurtured  lady  brought  to  trial  like  a 
common  criminal. 

Cecilia's  very  small  stature  and  delicate  frame  sur- 
prised the  Prefect,  who  had  never  seen  her  before,  and 
his  question  seems  to  show  that  he  had  forgotten  that 
she  was  a  married  woman. 

"Who  art  thou,  child?"  he  asked. 

"  I  am  called  Cecilia  among  men,"  she  replied,  "  but 
I  have  a  more  illustrious  name  —  that  of  '  Christian.' ' 

"What  is  thy  rank?" 

"  A  Roman  citizen  of  illustrious  and  noble  family." 

"  We  know  that.     I  asked  thee  of  thy  religion." 

"  Thy  interrogation  was  a  strangely  incorrect  one, 
since  to  one  question  it  required  two  answers." 

Cecilia's  logic  was  incontrovertible  and  the  Prefect  lost 
his  temper  at  once.  He  reproached  her  with  what  he 
called  her  insolence,  boasted  of  his  authority,  tried  to 
frighten  her  with  threats,  was  drawn  into  arguments  as 
to  the  existence  of  the  pagan  gods  and  their  power  to 
punish  those  who  should  resist  them;  as  to  the  "  invinci- 
bility of  the  Emperors,"  and  other  points,  on  every  one 
of  which  the  highly  educated,  intellectual  girl,  calm  as 
an  Angel,  and  relying  on  God  to  sustain  her,  confounded 
him  publicly,  to  the  great  delight,  and  as  she  intended,  to 
the  edification  and  instruction  of  her  hearers.  Conscious 
that  he  was  losing  ground  every  moment,  Almachius 

1 60 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

floundered  and  blundered  on  till  Cecilia  closed  the  in- 
terview by  saying :  "  Since  you  first  opened  your  mouth 
you  have  not  uttered  a  word  which  I  have  not  proved 
to  be  either  unjust  or  unreasonable."  Then,  as  concisely 
and  coolly  as  a  lawyer  conducting  a  case,  she  summed 
up  her  proofs  of  the  dead  nothingness  of  the  pagan 
idols,  and  ended  with  these  words:  "Christ  alone  can 
save  from  death,  and  deliver  the  guilty  from  eternal 
fire." 

There  ensued  a  long  silence,  during  which  Almachius 
considered  how  he  could  do  away  with  her  with  the  least 
amount  of  publicity  and  scandal.  In  his  mind  he  already 
heard  the  Emperor's  stinging  reprimand  for  his  folly 
in  provoking  a  scene  which  could  only  result  in  casting 
obloquy  on  the  deities  worshipped  (or  rather  patronised) 
by  Alexander  himself,  and  in  the  condemnation  of  a  beau- 
tiful and  virtuous  lady  beloved  by  all  the  people.  Cecilia 
stood  undisturbed  while  her  enemy  pondered  her  fate. 
She  had  done  with  earth;  she  had  vindicated  Heaven; 
her  thoughts  were  there. 

At  last  Almachius  gave  some  whispered  orders  to  his 
satellites,  and  Cecilia,  in  her  litter,  since  no  Roman  lady 
could  walk  through  the  public  streets,  carried  by  her  de- 
voted, heart-broken  servants,  was  sent  back  to  her  palace 
under  a  heavy  guard,  among  whom  were  those  who 
had  consented  to  act  as  her  executioners.  These  hurried 
to  that  one  of  the  marble  bathrooms  called  the  "  cali- 
darium,"  disposed  to  produce  the  fierce  heat  of  a  steam 
bath.  The  opening  in  the  gilded  ceiling,  intended  to  mod- 
erate the  temperature  when  necessary,  was  hermetically 
closed,  and  every  conduit  and  furnace  heated  to  raging 
point.  When  the  suffocating  fumes  had  so  filled  the  place 
that  no  one  dared  go  in,  Cecilia  was  commanded  to  enter. 

161 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

She  passed  In,  smiling,  and  was  lost  to  view  in  the  dense 
cloud  of  steam;  then  the  entrance  was  closed  and  a  guard 
set  over  it  that  none  of  those  who  were  mourning  and 
weeping  all  through  the  halls  and  courts  of  the  palace 
might  either  set  her  free  or  share  her  end.  For  the 
rest  of  the  day  and  all  the  ensuing  night  the  tormentors 
continued  to  pile  the  fires,  till  it  seemed  as  if  the  heat 
must  crack  the  very  marble.  No  sound  came  from  the 
sealed  room,  and  at  sunrise  the  next  day  the  executioners 
were  convinced  that  their  work  was  done.  Nothing  mor- 
tal could  survive  in  that  furnace. 

So  they  opened  the  door  —  and  Cecilia,  radiant  and 
fresh  as  a  rose  washed  in  dew,  knelt  there  in  prayer,  her 
lovely  face  raised  to  Heaven,  her  pure  hands  clasped 
in  love  and  thanksgiving.  Terrified,  the  men  rushed  to 
tell  Almachius  of  the  portent. 

"  Let  a  Lictor  go  and  behead  her!  "  was  all  he  said. 
Some  man  was  found  to  do  it  —  though  unwillingly,  since 
even  the  most  brutal  and  ignorant  felt  that  here  was  one 
mysteriously  protected  by  Heaven  —  and  might  not 
Heaven  —  even  the  Heaven  of  Jupiter  and  Apollo  — 
smite  him  who  should  raise  his  hand  against  her?  Still, 
orders  were  orders.  In  the  soft  May  morning  a  heavy 
tread  sounded  over  the  mosaic  pavements  of  the  palace. 
The  sweet  lady's  friends  and  dependents  cried  out  as  they 
saw  a  man  stride  along  towards  the  "  calidarium "  — 
where,  in  obedience  to  the  Prefect's  commands,  she  had 
remained  —  swinging  a  heavy  two-handled  axe.  The 
Christians  who  were  the  trophies  of  her  conquests  for 
Christ  besought  her,  between  their  sobs,  to  pray  for  them 
in  Heaven.  She  bade  them  be  comforted  —  smiling  radi- 
antly and  mysteriously  —  and  knelt  down  on  the  still  wet 
marble  to  receive  the  blow. 

162 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

But  the  Lictor's  hands  were  trembling  so  that  he  could 
scarcely  grasp  his  weapon.  Three  times  he  struck,  and 
each  time  the  steel  sank  deep  into  the  meek  white  neck, 
and  the  blood  crimsoned  the  golden  robe  and  the  marble 
floor.  Then  he  fled  in  terror.  The  Roman  law  forbade 
a  fourth  stroke.  Cecilia  was  lying  on  the  reddened  mar- 
ble, on  her  side,  Urban  and  the  rest  kneeling  around 
her.  And  it  was  she  who  broke  the  silence,  bidding  them 
pray  to  God  and  then  listen  to  her,  since  she  still  had 
somewhat  to  say  to  them.  Some  among  them  were  yet 
in  need  of  instruction,  many  in  need  of  comfort  and  en- 
couragement; so  she  taught  and  prayed,  and  comforted 
them  for  three  long  days,  never  moving  from  the  spot 
where  she  had  sunk  down  under  the  strokes  of  the  axe; 
and  they  were  left  in  peace,  since  cold  fear  had  fallen 
on  the  city  and  none  dared  approach  Cecilia's  house  to 
ask  how  it  fared  with  her. 

During  all  this  time  her  face  showed  that  she  was  suf- 
fering the  agonies  of  death,  though  she  found  her  old 
sweet  smile  for  each  and  all  of  her  spiritual  children 
and  her  beloved  poor,  as  they  crowded  round  her  to  kiss 
her  garments  and  try  to  staunch  her  wounds,  and  to  dip 
their  linen  cloths  in  the  treasure  of  her  blood.  Her  last 
endearments  were  for  the  poor,  and  whatever  remained 
of  her  own  properties  in  the  house  she  now  commanded 
to  be  given  to  them.  Each  word  she  spoke  seemed  as  if 
it  must  be  the  last,  yet  still  she  lived  —  and  smiled,  and 
blessed  them. 

On  the  third  day,  a  great  wonder  being  on  all  that 
assemblage,  she  bade  them  leave  her  for  a  while,  and 
the  holy  Pope  Urban  came  and  prayed  with  her  and 
blessed  her.  And  he  begged  her  to  tell  him  how  it  was 
that  she  had  survived  those  cruel  strokes  so  long.  And 

163 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Cecilia,  looking  up  at  him  most  lovingly,  replied:  "I 
asked  the  Lord  to  give  me  these  three  days,  that  I  might 
give  to  your  Beatitude  my  last  treasure,  the  poor  whom  I 
nourished,  and  who  will  miss  me;  and  I  also  give  you  this 
my  house  that  you  may  consecrate  it  to  be  a  Church  to 
the  Lord  for  ever  and  ever."  Then  she  thanked  her 
Saviour  for  all  His  love,  and  especially  for  having 
"  deigned  to  give  her  a  part  in  the  glory  of  the  athletes, 
for  having  crowned  her  with  the  lilies  of  virginity  and 
the  roses  of  martyrdom."  A  little  faintness  came  over 
her  then.  She  had  never  moved  from  the  attitude  in 
which  she  had  fallen,  and  was  lying  on  her  right  side, 
but  her  hands  had  been  raised  in  prayer.  Now  they  fell, 
still  clasped,  on  the  folds  of  the  golden  robe  so  rosy 
with  blood;  she  turned  her  lovely  face  to  the  ground,  that 
only  God  might  see  the  ecstasy  of  her  reunion  with  Him, 
and  thus  she  died. 

Pope  Urban  attended  personally  to  every  detail  of  her 
burial.  A  cypress-wood  coffin  was  prepared,  and  in  this 
she  was  laid  by  the  priests  in  attendance.  Urban  would 
not  permit  any  change  from  the  attitude  of  virginal  mod- 
esty in  which  she  had  expired,  so  with  tender  care  the 
consecrated  hands  raised  her  and  laid  her  body  in  the 
coffin,  just  as  it  was,  on  the  right  side,  with  the  face  turned 
to  the  ground.  The  cloths  dipped  in  her  blood  were 
rolled  up  and  placed  at  her  feet,  a  profusion  of  rich  oint- 
ments and  perfumes  was  shed  around  her,  and  then  the 
fragrant  casket  was  closed.  Under  cover  of  night  the 
Pontiff  had  it  carried  out  to  the  cemetery  of  Saint  Ca- 
lixtus  on  the  Appian  Way,  wishing  to  honour  her  zealous 
apostleship  for  Christ  by  burying  her  close  to  the  tomb 
where  he  had  laid  his  predecessor,  the  martyr  Pope,  St. 
Zephyrinus.  The  cemetery  of  Pretextatus,  where  Valeri- 

164 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

anus  and  Tiburtius  had  been  buried,  was  close  at  hand, 
and  Urban,  to  commemorate  the  pure  love  that  had 
united  them  on  earth,  made  Cecilia's  tomb  at  the  extreme 
confine  of  the  Calixtus  catacomb,  where  its  direction 
turned  towards  the  older  one.  Fearing  desecration,  per- 
haps prophetically  foreseeing  that  which  threatened  the 
resting-places  of  martyrs  in  the  invasion  of  the  Arian 
heretics  some  two  hundred  years  later,  he  closed  the  tomb 
with  one  large  slab  of  stone  and  left  it  for  the  moment 
bare  of  all  inscription;  doubtless  he  intended  to  place 
one  there  immediately,  but  had  no  time  to  do  so  before 
his  own  death.*  Those  who  had  loved  her  needed  not 
to  see  her  name;  they  came  day  after  day  to  weep  there 
and  ask  for  her  prayers;  but  God  had  inspired  His  serv- 
ant to  protect  and  hide  her  blessed  remains  from  all  the 
enemies  of  the  Church. 

It  seems  as  if  St.  Urban's  own  life  had  been  prolonged 
thus  far  that  he  might  not  only  carry  out  this  pious  task, 
but  also  fulfil  Cecilia's  last  commands  by  giving  the  re- 
mainder of  her  goods  to  the  poor  and  by  consecrating 
as  a  Church  the  house  in  which  she  died.  A  short  month 
later  he  was  taken  and  brought,  with  some  of  his  Deacons, 
before  Almachius,  to  answer  to  two  charges,  that  of  be- 
ing a  Christian,  and  that  of  having  seized  Cecilia's  prop- 
erty, which  the  covetous  Prefect  had  counted  on  securing 
for  himself.  The  usual  farce  of  a  trial  ensued;  the 
confessors  were  dragged  out  to  the  Pagus  Triopius  and. 
on  their  refusing  to  sacrifice  to  Jupiter,  savagely  scourged. 
One  of  them,  Lucian,  died  under  the  lash;  Urban  and 

•This  hypothesis  appears  to  me  more  reasonable  than  the  one  usually 
put  forward,  viz:  That  Cecilia's  inscription  was  destroyed  by  the  Goths. 
They  destroyed  many  such  inscriptions,  with  the  tombs  that  bore  them, 
but  the  resting-place  of  St.  Cecilia  when  discovered  showed  no  marks  of 
violence  and  answered  precisely  to  the  contemporary  description  of  it. 

165 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

the  others  were  beheaded,  in  another  spot,  three  days 
later. 

Valerianus  and  his  brother  had  suffered  on  the  i8th 
of  April,  Cecilia  a  week  or  more  after  them,  and  St. 
Urban  and  his  companions  on  the  twenty-fifth  day  of 
May.  St.  Cecilia's  name  was  inserted  at  once  in  the 
Canon  of  the  Mass,  where  only  those  of  six  out  of  the 
thirty  martyr  Popes  were  admitted.  Agnes  precedes  her; 
Anastasia,  burnt  alive  on  Christmas  Day,  under  Diocle- 
tian, follows;  and  three  hundred  years  later  St.  Gregory 
inserted  those  of  the  two  Sicilian  martyrs,  Agatha  and 
Lucy;  but  none  inscribed  on  that  sacred  list  which  the 
priest  repeats  every  morning  at  Mass  eclipses  the  name 
of  Cecilia.  Her  house  has  never  ceased  to  be  "A 
Church  of  the  Lord,"  as  she  ordained;  every  year  on 
her  feast,  the  most  glorious  music  resounds  there,  and 
many  a  time  have  I  been  one  of  the  crowd  gathered  on 
the  22d  of  November  to  listen  to  the  finest  singers  in 
Rome  gathered  to  do  her  honour,  because  she  loved  to 
praise  the  Lord  in  song  and  psalm.  The  anniversary  of 
her  death  often  coincides  with  the  great  feasts  of  the 
Ascension  and  of  Pentecost,  and,  for  some  reason,  of 
which  we  have  lost  the  clue,  the  22d  of  November  was 
fixed  for  the  celebration  of  it.  On  that  day  not  only 
in  her  Church  is  she  glorified,  but  also  in  the  cemetery 
where  her  body  lay  for  some  five  hundred  years  and 
which  is  brilliantly  illuminated  and  a  grand  musical  Mass 
sung  there  in  her  honour. 

Yet,  for  centuries  that  blessed  tomb  was  lost  and  none 
could  pray  beside  it.  Every  word,  almost  every  look 
and  gesture  of  Cecilia's  last  days  on  earth,  was  written 
in  the  "  Acts  of  the  Martyrs,"  that  enormous  collection 
of  archives  instituted  by  St.  Clement,  who  appointed 

166 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

seven  holy  and  learned  notaries  to  take  down  at  once 
even  the  smallest  details  connected  with  the  trial  and 
sufferings  of  the  Christian  victims,  a  work  zealously  con- 
tinued by  all  the  succeeding  Pontiffs,  one  of  whom,  An- 
terus,  was  put  to  death  solely  on  this  charge.  The  "  Acts 
of  the  Martyrs,"  as  we  possess  them  to-day,  were  finally 
compiled  in  the  Fourth  or  early  part  of  the  Fifth  Cen- 
tury. The  Latin,  though  vivid  and  powerful,  is  already 
notably  defective,  ungrammatical,  but  not  as  debased  as 
it  became  at  the  beginning  of  the  Sixth  Century.  The 
great  masters  of  language  in  the  Fourth  Century  —  St. 
Augustine,  St.  Ambrose,  and  St.  Jerome  —  were  eager  to 
preserve  the  purity  of  the  Latin  tongue,  but  their  con- 
temporaries all  over  the  Empire,  either  through  ignorance 
or  carelessness,  spoke  and  wrote  an  idiom  as  far  removed 
from  that  of  the  Golden  Age  of  Augustus  as  is  fashion- 
able English  to-day  from  that  of  Addison  and  Pope. 
Is  our  misuse  of  our  own  noble  tongue  the  cause,  or  the 
effect,  of  political  degeneration?  One  thing  is  certain, 
the  slaughter  of  its  language  has  invariably  accompanied 
the  downfall  of  a  State. 

When  the  Goths  invaded  Rome  in  the  Fifth  Century 
their  Arian  fury  was  especially  directed  at  all  that  Catho- 
lics held  sacred,  barring  only  the  Tombs  of  the  Apostles, 
which  they  feared  to  profane.  They  raged  through  the 
Catacombs  in  the  hope  of  finding  plunder,  or  else  some 
secret  ingress  to  the  city;  the  Christians,  warned  of  their 
approach,  had  time  to  fill  up  and  close  the  entrance  of  a 
few  of  the  cemeteries,  among  others  of  that  where  Ce- 
cilia's body  lay.  As  a  result,  the  pilgrims  were  unable 
to  visit  these  underground  sanctuaries  for  many  years, 
and  when  peace  was  restored  to  the  Church,  and  the 
bodies  of  many  -martyrs  brought  back  to  the  city,  all  but 

167 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

the  vaguest  clue  to  her  resting-place  was  lost,  though 
it  was  sought  for  eagerly  and  persistently.  Her  Church 
—  the  "  House  where  Cecilia  prayed  "* — was  ever  pro- 
tected from  destruction  and  continually  resounded  with 
prayer  and  praise,  but  it  was  empty  of  the  treasure  of  her 
remains.  As  time  went  on,  almost  all  the  bones  of  the 
martyrs  had  been  restored  to  the  piety  of  the  Faithful 
in  the  different  Churches  and  Basilicas  of  Rome;  the  sanc- 
tuaries ruined  and  desecrated  by  the  Goths  and  Lombards 
had  been  rebuilt;  the  Catacombs  reopened  and  partially 
restored;  so  that,  although  they  would  never  again  in- 
spire quite  the  veneration  with  which  they  had  been 
regarded  before  the  Barbarians  defaced  and  defiled 
them,  yet  pilgrims,  with  their  strange  old  guidebooks 
to  direct  their  steps,  would  visit  the  places  which 
had  been  hallowed  by  those  noble  presences  in  past 
ages. 

In  817  Pope  Paschal  ascended  the  throne,  and  made 
it  his  especial  duty  to  rescue  from  the  Catacombs  any  holy 
relics  that  still  remained  there.  Great  was  his  desire  to 
find  the  tomb  of  St.  Cecilia;  he  sought  for  it  long  and 
patiently,  and  seems  to  have  passed  it  more  than  once, 
owing  to  its  lack  of  inscription.  He  had  already  rebuilt  her 
Church,  which  had  suffered  much  from  time,  and  deco- 
rated it  magnificently,  but  it  seemed  destined  to  be 
deprived  of  the  honour  of  sheltering  all  that  earth  still 
held  of  her.  In  great  depression  he,  with  many  others, 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  her  body  must  have  been 

*  It  is  amusing  to  note  in  this  connection  the  statement  in  Baedeker's 
guidebook  for  Rome,  p.  422:  "St.  Cecilia  in  Trastevere — originally  a 
dwelling  house,  which  was  converted  into  a  Church  by  Urban  I.,  <who 
•was  misled  by  the  erroneous  tradition  that  St.  Cecilia  had  once  occupied 
it."  The  italics  are  my  own.  Such  ignorance  of  history  requires  no 
comment. 

168 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

carried  away  by  the  Lombards  when  Charlemagne  drove 
them  out  of  Italy. 

And  then  Cecilia  herself  re-animated  him  to  the  search. 
He  has  left  us  an  enchanting  description  of  her  visit. 
On  a  certain  Sunday  morning,  very,  very  early,  Pope 
Paschal  was  sitting  in  St.  Peter's,  near  the  Tomb  of 
the  Apostles,  listening  entranced  to  the  sweet  voices  of 
the  Canons,  who  were  singing  Lauds,  the  office  with  which 
the  Church  opens  her  day  before  the  first  gleam  of  light 
has  come  into  the  East.  It  was  not  the  St.  Peter's  that 
we  know,  but  the  ancient  Basilica  founded  by  Constan- 
tine  and  consecrated  in  the  year  326,  vast  and  dark,  with 
heavy  Byzantine  arches  and  windows  closed  by  panes 
of  thin  Oriental  alabaster.  The  good  Pope  speaks  re- 
gretfully of  a  slight  weariness  which  was  creeping  over 
him  after  the  long  night's  vigil,  and  says  that,  just  as  the 
eastern  windows  became  visible  squares  in  the  first  faint 
flush  of  dawn,  he  was  overcome  with  drowsiness  and 
closed  his  eyes,  so  that  the  soaring  music  became  the  music 
of  dreams. 

Then  a  luminous  vision  appeared:  a  young  virgin, 
adorned  as  a  bride,  stood  before  Paschal,  and,  after 
reproaching  him  with  his  too  easy  abandonment  of  the 
task  he  had  undertaken,  said:  "Nevertheless,  thou  wast 
so  near  me  that  we  could  have  spoken  mouth  to  mouth!  " 

Amazed  and  agitated,  Paschal  asked  her  who  she  was. 
She  replied,  "  Cecilia,  the  servant  of  Christ."  But  the 
prudent  Pontiff,  knowing  that  all  visions  are  not  of 
Heaven,  and  fearing  a  snare  of  the  Evil  One,  said :  "  How 
can  I  believe  thee?  All  men  say  that  the  body  of  the 
holy  Cecilia  was  carried  away  by  the  Lombards." 

Very  gently  she  replied  that  the  Lombards  had  indeed 
sought  for  her,  but  that  the  Blessed  Virgin  had  protected 

169 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

her  sepulchre,  so  that  they  had  not  found  it.  She  bade 
him  persevere  in  his  search,  which  she  promised  should 
soon  be  rewarded,  and  commanded  him  to  bring  her 
body  and  those  of  "  other  Saints  near  her  "  to  her  own 
Church.  Then  she  disappeared,  and  Paschal,  greatly 
rejoiced,  went  forth,  and  straightway  returned  to  the 
ground  over  which  he  had  gone  so  many  times  in  vain. 
In  the  cemetery  of  St.  Calixtus  he  now  noticed  a  name- 
less tomb,  which  he  had  never  connected  in  his  mind 
with  that  of  the  Saint,  because  of  its  extreme  bareness  and 
apparent  obscurity.  He  now  realised  that  this  must  be 
what  he  had  been  seeking.  The  slab  was  at  once  re- 
moved from  the  wall,  disclosing  a  marble-lined  recess,  in 
which  a  little  chest  of  cypress-wood,  just  over  four  feet 
long,  reposed  without  a  trace  of  age  or  decay. 

Very  carefully  it  was  lifted  down  and  placed  at 
Paschal's  feet.  The  opening  of  it  presented  some  diffi- 
culty, but  when  the  cover  was  removed,  a  strong  fra- 
grance of  roses  and  lilies  came  welling  up  from  the  inte- 
rior. Then  the  Pope  and  his  assistants  beheld  Cecilia, 
lying  like  a  child  asleep,  her  head  turned  down,  her  hands 
folded,  her  robe,  tinged  with  blood,  outlining  the  mod- 
est grace  of  her  young  body.  That  was  whole  and  sweet 
as  on  the  day  when  Urban  laid  it  away  hundreds  of  years 
before;  no  decay  or  corruption  had  been  suffered  to  ap- 
proach it.  All  was  as  on  the  day  of  her  death,  from  the 
great  wounds  in  her  neck  to  the  gold  embroidery  on  her 
dress,  and  at  her  feet  were  the  rolls  of  linen  steeped  in 
her  blood. 

They  brought  her,  with  great  and  reverent  rejoicing, 
back  to  her  own  house,  now  the  Lord's;  they  brought,  too, 
the  bodies  of  her  beloved  husband  and  his  brother,  and 
that  of  Maximus,  the  brave  officer  who  had  been  charged 

170 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

with  their  execution,  but  who  chose  to  follow  them  to 
glory.  For  greater  honour  Paschal  brought  there  the 
body  of  St.  Urban  and  placed  it  with  that  of  Cecilia 
and  her  comrade  martyrs  under  the  High  Altar. 

For  Cecilia  he  prepared  a  white  marble  sarcophagus, 
and  in  this  the  little  cypress-wood  coffin  *  was  placed. 
Paschal  would  not  have  her  body  touched,  and  left  her 
as  she  had  lain  ever  since  that  sad  and  glorious  May 
morning  six  hundred  years  before;  but  he  lined  the  sides 
of  the  coffin  with  a  rich  damask  silk  with  fringed  edges, 
and  spread  over  her  a  great  veil  of  silk  also,  but  diaph- 
anously  thin,  and  this  too  was  delicately  fringed.  All 
these  details  so  carefully  set  down  at  the  time  were 
destined  to  be  of  great  value,  not  only  as  aids  to  identi- 
fication in  after  years,  but  as  testimonies  to  the  immeasur- 
able reverence  with  which  the  Church  regarded  the  bodies 
of  the  martyrs  in  the  early  ages. 

After  gazing  for  the  last  time  at  her  pure  loveliness, 
Paschal  closed  the  sarcophagus  with  a  marble  slab,  and 
then,  with  no  less  love  and  reverence,  placed  the  bodies 
of  her  three  heroes  —  Valerianus,  Tiburtius,  and  Maxi- 
mus  —  in  another  sarcophagus,  u  all  together,  but  each 
wrapped  in  a  separate  winding  sheet."  For  St.  Urban 
a  third  marble  coffin  was  made,  but  —  a  little  touch  of 
human  nature  that  brings  a  smile  and  a  tear  —  Paschal 
feared  he  "  might  be  lonely "  in  it,  and  brought  the 
body  of  one  of  his  martyred  successors,  Lucius,  to  lie 
beside  him,  though  he  is  careful  to  tell  us  that  they  too 
had  each  "  a  separate  winding  sheet!  " 

The  three  sarcophagi  were  placed  below  the  High 
Altar  in  the  Church  now  called  St.  Cecilia  in  Trastevere; 

*The  coffin  is  four  feet,  three  inches  long,  thirteen  inches  broad,  and 
seventeen  inches  high. 

171 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

a  marble  tablet,  inscribed  with  a  cross,  the  martyrs'  names, 
and  the  account  of  their  sepulture  in  this  spot,  was  duly 
placed  near  them,  and  then  a  strong  circular  wall  was 
built  all  around  and  closed  up,  so  that  none  could  enter 
the  tomb.  But  just  above  it,  in  the  pavement  of  the 
Church,  a  small  grating  opened  on  a  long  funnel-like 
aperture  through  which,  according  to  ancient  custom,  the 
Faithful  could  lower  strips  of  linen  to  rest  for  a  moment 
on  the  marble  coffins,  and  then  be  withdrawn  and  carried 
away  as  precious  souvenirs  of  the  holy  ones  lying 
therein. 

The  Church  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  in  Rome 
to  the  Catholic  Pilgrim;  as  a  well-known  Protestant 
writer*  says:  "The  traveller  who  tries  to  overlook 
Catholicity  in  his  sightseeing  in  Rome,  misses  all  that  is 
most  interesting  to  see."  Paschal  lavished  splendid  gifts 
on  the  Church  he  so  dearly  loved.  The  chroniclers  have 
left  us  minute  descriptions  of  the  gold  and  the  silver,  the 
marvellously  embroidered  vestments  and  hangings  that 
he  provided  for  it,  and  his  successors  adorned  it  with 
lovely  paintings  and  mosaics  as  time  went  on,  but  the 
best  offering  of  all  was  Paschal's  own.  That  Cecilia's 
last  wish  might  be  carried  out  and  "  the  praises  of  the 
Lord  sound  there  forever,"  he  built  and  endowed  a  mon- 
astery close  by  and  established  there  a  choir  of  monks, 
who  sang  those  praises  night  and  day  from  that  time 
forth. 

Then  he  passed  away,  to  be  greeted  in  Heaven  by  those 
whom  he  had  so  loved  to  honour  upon  earth.  There 
had  been  many  martyrs  —  so  many  that  only  the  Angels 
could  count  them  —  but  none  greater,  more  glorious, 
more  dear  to  God  and  beloved  of  men,  than  Cecilia. 

*  Augustus  Hare. 
172 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

The  devotion  to  her  spread  rapidly  over  Europe; 
Britain,  France,  and  Germany  emulated  Italy  in  hon- 
ours paid  to  her,  and  many  churches  boasted,  in  perfect 
good  faith,  that  they  possessed  some  of  her  relics.  We 
know,  not  only  from  Paschal's  account,  but  from  the  eye- 
testimony  of  witnesses  quite  near  to  our  own  times,  that 
only  one  tiny  fragment  of  her  blessed  human  frame  — 
and  that  by  accident  —  was  ever  parted  from  the  rest; 
but  we  know,  too,  that  the  Church  counts  three  other 
Cecilias,  two  of  them  Roman,  among  the  known  mar- 
tyrs. Their  relics  were  borne  away  for  veneration,  and 
time  caused  their  origin  to  be  so  far  forgotten  that  they 
were  for  centuries  regarded  as  belonging  to  the  Roman 
heroine  of  the  Third  Century. 

Pope  Paschal  died  in  824.  The  monastery  which  he 
had  founded  passed  away  from  the  Benedictines,  was 
made  into  a  Collegiate  Church,  was  restored  to  the  Bene- 
dictines —  and  had  to  be  abandoned  during  the  stirring 
years  of  the  first  part  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  be- 
cause the  zealous  sons  of  St.  Benedict  had  so  many  insti- 
tutions to  attend  to  that  their  numbers  no  longer  sufficed 
for  the  work  to  be  done.  The  Church  of  St.  Cecilia, 
in  1532,  had  fallen  into  such  decay  that  it  was  barely 
possible  to  celebrate  her  feast  there  any  longer,  and 
this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was  still  considered  the 
most  honourable  "  Titular  Church  "  in  Rome.*  On  the 
I9th  of  December,  1590,  Gregory  XIV,  who  had  been 
made  Pope  on  the  fifth  day  of  that  month,  conferred  the 
cardinal's  hat  on  the  son  of  his  brother,  the  young  Paul 
Emilius  Sfondrato,  with  the  "  Titular "  of  St.  Cecilia, 

*  Every  Cardinal  takes  his  title  from  one  or  other  of  the  ancient 
Churches  — hence  the  term  "Titular  Cardinal  of  St.  Cecilia,"  "of  St. 
Clement,"  etc.,  etc. 

173 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

which  the  Pontiff  had  himself  held  before  his  election 
to  the  Papacy.  The  Sfondrati  were  a  Milanese  family, 
but  Paul  had  already  spent  much  time  in  Rome  under 
the  spiritual  tutorship  of  St.  Philip  Nerim,  and  he  joy- 
fully hastened  thither  in  response  to  his  uncle's  sum- 
mons. The  young  Cardinal  was  already  famous  for  his 
wisdom  and  learning,  but  still  more  so  for  his  goodness 
and  his  tender  charity  to  the  poor.  His  two  leading  mo- 
tives in  life  were  the  honouring  of  God  and  the  Saints, 
and  the  relief  of  suffering.  We  read  that  he  built  and 
decorated  church  after  church,  recking  nothing  of  spend- 
ing a  great  part  of  his  large  fortune  on  the  House  of 
God  and  the  dwellers  therein,  at  the  same  time  denying 
himself  every  sort  of  luxury  and  living  like  a  poor  man 
in  order  that  the  poor  might  not  be  defrauded  of  their 
share  of  the  goods  which  he  considered  he  only  held  in 
trust  for  the  Lord. 

One  of  his  first  resolves  on  coming  to  Rome  in  1591 
was  to  rebuild  the  almost  ruinous  Church  of  St.  Cecilia, 
and,  while  doing  so,  to  find  her  tomb,  of  which  the  exact 
location  had  been  lost  in  the  eight  hundred  years  that 
had  elapsed  since  Paschal  closed  it.  Other  traces  of  her 
presence  had  also  disappeared,  and  it  was  reserved  for 
Sfondrato  to  rediscover  the  bathroom  where  she  had 
expired.  At  first  a  chapel  had  been  built  over  it,  but 
with  succeeding  modifications  this  had  been  pulled  down 
and  the  space  incorporated  in  the  Church,  and,  although 
there  were  old  men  then  alive  who  remembered  having 
prayed  there  in  their  childhood,  it  was  only  after  much 
study  of  the  ancient  and  actual  topography  that  Sfondrato 
was  led  to  the  correct  spot.  There,  however,  all  doubts 
were  set  at  rest.  He  found  the  "  calidarium,"  of  the 
small  size  adapted  to  a  private  dwelling,  with  its  marble 

174 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

floor,  its  great  boiler,  and  the  remains  of  the  leaden  and 
earthenware  pipes  through  which  the  steam  percolated 
into  the  bathroom.  When  the  rubbish  was  cleared 
away  it  was  easy  to  call  up  the  touching  scenes  it  had 
witnessed  in  those  May  days  fourteen  hundred  years 
earlier. 

The  pious  Cardinal,  wishing  to  place  under  the  High 
Altar  of  the  restored  basilica  some  precious  relics  of 
other  saints,  commanded  the  workmen  to  take  up  the 
pavement,  so  that  the  supposed  space  below  could  be 
utilised  for  this  purpose.  They  found,  however,  that 
there  was  only  a  very  small  recess  there,  and  that  all 
further  excavation  was  arrested  by  a  thick  rounded  wall 
of  exceedingly  solid  material.  Sfondrato  at  once  realised 
that  this  must  be  the  barrier  mentioned  in  Paschal's  ac- 
count of  the  burial  of  St.  Cecilia  by  himself,  and  directed 
the  masons  to  make  some  aperture  in  the  wall,  through 
which  a  glimpse  might  be  obtained  of  that  which  it  pro- 
tected. At  the  same  time  he  was  so  scrupulous  as  to  the 
respect  to  be  shown  to  the  martyr  that  he  forbade  the 
men  to  strike  a  blow  of  any  kind  except  in  his  own 
presence. 

At  last,  on  the  twentieth  day  of  October,  1599,  an 
opening  was  effected,  and  Paul  Sfondrato,  looking  through 
it  with  beating  heart  and  straining  eyes,  beheld  by  the 
light  of  a  taper  that  for  which  he  had  sought  so  eagerly 
—  two  large  white  marble  sarcophagi,  standing  side  by 
side  immediately  below  the  High  Altar.  St.  Cecilia  and 
her  companions  were  undoubtedly  there,  just  as  Paschal 
had  placed  them,  but  the  prudent  Cardinal  would  not 
open  their  tombs  except  in  the  presence  of  eminent  and 
reliable  witnesses.  Curbing  his  impatience,  he  sent  for 
four  learned  and  holy  men  —  the  Bishop  who  was  acting 

175 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

as  Vicegerent  of  the  Cardinal  Vicar,  a  Canon  of  St.  John 
Lateran,  and  two  Fathers  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  Many 
others  came  with  them,  but  a  palpitating  silence  reigned 
in  the  vault  while  the  workmen  removed  the  marble  slab 
from  the  coffin  nearest  the  entrance  and  disclosed,  to  eyes 
already  misty  with  tears,  the  little  cypress  casket,  so 
touchingly  small,  in  which  Urban  had  laid  the  dear  saint 
on  her  "  Natal  Day." 

With  extreme  precaution  this  was  lifted  out,  but  the 
perfumed  wood  proved  to  be  perfectly  solid,  as  if  put 
together  the  day  before,  only  the  cover  showing  some 
slight  marks  of  the  flight  of  time.  At  first  this  cover 
baffled  all  efforts  to  remove  it;  it  held  tightly,  but  with 
no  visible  fastening.  Finally  Sfondrato  himself  found 
out  the  secret  —  it  had  been  contrived  to  slip  along  two 
perfectly  fitted  lateral  grooves  —  and  with  his  own  hands 
drew  it  off  and  looked  at  last  on  the  body  of  St.  Cecilia, 
perfect,  untouched,  lovely,  and  at  rest  like  that  of  a  sleep- 
ing child.  Every  detail  of  Paschal's  description  was  veri- 
fied. The  gold  embroidery  of  her  dress  showed  a  little 
dulled  through  the  airy  veil  he  had  thrown  over  her, 
and  his  fringed  damask  lining  was  slightly  faded;  other- 
wise no  change  had  been  suffered  to  approach  her  whom 
the  Lord  so  loved.  From  the  last  few  moments  before 
her  death  no  one  had  ever  looked  on  her  face,  so  pathetic- 
ally turned  to  the  ground,  and  none  could  see  now  more 
than  the  soft  outline  of  the  rounded  cheek  and  the  indi- 
cation of  the  temple.  Her  little  hands  lay  together,  and 
now  for  the  first  time  it  was  noticed  that  her  very  last 
movement  must  have  been  a  confession  of  faith,  for  of 
one  hand  three  fingers  were  distended,  of  the  other,  one 
—  to  symbolise  the  Trinity  in  Unity.  And  the  last  crown- 
ing sweetness  was  not  wanting.  As  soon  as  the  small 

176 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

coffin  was  opened  a  heavenly  fragrance  as  of  freshly 
gathered  lilies  and  roses  welled  out  from  it  and  filled  all 
the  place. 

With  joy  too  great  and  tender  to  find  words,  Sfondrato 
and  his  companions  carried  the  precious  casket  up  to 
the  light  of  day,  and  deposited  it  for  safety  in  the  small 
chapel  with  grated  windows  where  the  nuns  of  the  con- 
tiguous convent  were  accustomd  to  assist  at  Mass.  Raised 
on  a  dais  hung  with  rich  silk,  surrounded  with  lighted 
tapers  that  shed  a  soft  glow  all  around,  half  smothered 
in  flowers,  Cecilia  lay  there  while  all  Rome,  beside  itself 
with  joy,  came  to  gaze  upon  her  and  entreat  her  prayers. 
No  perfumes  were  permitted  to  be  used,  since  the  heav- 
enly fragrance  of  roses  and  lilies  still  emanated  from  the 
coffin.  The  nuns  knelt  round  her  for  a  guard  of  honour, 
and  soon  the  great  Pope  Clement  VIII,  who  had  barely 
recovered  from  a  severe  illness,  travelled  in  from 
Frascati  to  pray  beside  her. 

The  times  were  very  evil  just  then  for  him  and  for 
the  Church;  Calvinism  was  devastating  France  and 
threatening  to  give  her  a  sovereign  dyed  in  its  abominable 
impieties;  England,  Holland,  Scandinavia,  and  a  great 
part  both  of  Germany  and  Switzerland  were  altogether 
lost  to  the  faith  and  had  become  the  bitterest  enemies  of 
the  Church,  and  impious  hands  were  scattering  the  bones 
of  the  saints  on  the  public  highways.  Only  two  months 
had  elapsed  since  the  ghastly  tragedy  of  the  Cenci  had 
thrown  a  pall  of  gloom  over  Rome  itself;  but  every- 
thing was  forgotten  in  the  joy  of  having  the  beloved 
Cecilia's  remains  restored  to  the  veneration  of  her  peo- 
ple. Clement  himself,  the  "  hard,  stern  "  old  man,  was 
completely  overcome  when  he  beheld  her;  his  tears 
choked  his  speech.  The  Romans  of  every  class  thronged 

177 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

to  the  place  in  such  numbers  that  Sfondrato  himself  was 
almost  crushed  to  death  in  the  crowd  and  the  Pontifical 
Swiss  Guards  had  to  be  stationed  there  to  keep  order. 
Such  was  still  the  enthusiastic  love  with  which  our  for- 
bears regarded  all  that  was  dear  to  God ! 

Clement,  with  rare  restraint,  forbade  that  even  the  veil 
which  covered  the  virgin's  body  should  be  lifted,  but  he 
permitted  Sfondrato  to  remove  the  linen  cloths  rolled  up 
at  her  feet,  to  be  distributed  to  such  as  were  worthy  to 
possess  these  sacred  souvenirs.  The  Cardinal  gave  away 
all  but  one  piece,  a  little  rag  that  he  had  reserved  for 
himself;  another  Cardinal,  a  great  historian,  was  pres- 
ent at  the  scenes  I  have  described  and  tells  us  that  Sfon- 
drato was  rewarded  for  all  his  love  and  charity  by  find- 
ing, adhering  to  this  fragment,  a  tiny  particle  of  bone, 
which  must  have  -detached  itself  under  the  hand  which 
was  tenderly  attempting  to  staunch  one  of  the  wounds 
inflicted  by  the  Lictor's  axe.  This  is  the  only  relic  of 
the  saint  which  was  ever  separated  from  her  body,  and  no 
greater  treasure  could  she  have  bestowed  on  her  faithful 
servant.  He  bequeathed  it  to  her  Church,  where  his  own 
body  finally  found  a  resting-place,  like  that  of  Clement, 
at  her  feet.  He  also  cut  off  a  tiny  piece  of  her  dress,  and, 
as  he  did  so,  felt  beneath  it  the  knots  of  the  hair  shirt 
which  she  continually  wore  to  mortify  her  innocent  flesh. 

The  bodies  of  Valerianus,  Tiburtius,  and  Maximus 
were  found  in  the  second  sarcophagus,  everything  about 
them  testifying  to  the  truth  of  the  records  of  their  mar- 
tyrdom. The  two  brothers  were  exactly  alike,  as  tradi- 
tion recorded,  in  form  and  size,  while  Maximus  was  a 
much  larger,  heavier  man.  The  manner  of  his  martyr- 
dom was  also  attested,  the  leaden  plummets  of  the  whips 
having  fractured  his  skull  in  several  places,  so  that  the 

178 


MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  CECILIA 

thick  brown  hair,  which  was  perfectly  preserved,  was  all 
matted  with  blood  and  particles  of  bone.  Urban  and 
Lucius  were  found  buried  directly  below  Cecilia's  resting- 
place.  To  this  her  body  was  returned  a  month  later, 
when  on  her  feast,  the  22d  of  November,  the  Pope,  with 
all  the  Cardinals  and  a  great  concourse  of  bishops  and 
prelates,  came  to  celebrate  the  Holy  Mysteries  and,  for 
the  third  time  since  her  death,  consign  the  dear  maid's 
body  to  the  keeping  of  earth.  Clement  enclosed  the  lit- 
tle cypress-wood  coffin  in  one  of  silver,  superbly  orna- 
mented with  gold  —  enclosed  this  in  a  newer  and  larger 
marble  sarcophagus  (the  old  one  being  too  small  for  the 
double  treasure),  inscribed  on  a  silver  tablet  the  record 
of  all  that  had  taken  place,  sealed  the  whole  with  his 
Pontifical  seal,  and  had  the  vault  built  over  once  more, 
not  to  be  opened  again,  God  willing,  till  the  Last 
Day.* 

Before  closing  the  saint's  coffin,  Clement  sent  for  the 
eminent  sculptor,  Maderno,  and  commissioned  him  to 
model  a  statue  as  like  as  possible  to  the  fair  body  that 
lay  there,  but  forbade  him  to  remove  the  veil.  Maderno 
hastened  to  obey,  and  the  statue  now  in  the  Church  and 
known  by  thousands  of  reproductions  all  through  the  artis- 

*  The  Acts  of  St.  Cecilia  have  always  been  considered  among  the  most 
absolutely  authentic  of  those  preserved  by  the  Church,  and  every  circum- 
stance connected  with  the  finding  of  her  body,  both  by  Paschal  and 
Sfondrato,  bears  them  out.  Tillesnaut,  the  lying  Jansenist  historian  so 
dear  to  heretic  students,  and  who  seems  to  have  had  a  particularly  malev- 
olent hatred  for  St.  Cecilia,  has  made  a  ludicrous  attempt  to  prove  —  if 
such  arguments  could  be  called  by  that  name  —  that  St.  Cecilia  was  not 
a  Roman,  and  as  we  know  her  never  existed.  He  supports  this  amazing 
theory  on  one  line  many  times  re-copied  by  ignorant  scribes,  of  the  poet 
Fortunatus,  who  speaks  of  "  St.  Cecilia  "  as  having  suffered  in  "  Sicilia." 
The  Church  knows  of  no  Sicilian  martyr  of  that  name,  but  there  was- one 
in  Sardinia,  a  name  which  one  of  Fortunatus'  copyists  apparently  mistook 
for  "Sicilia." 

179 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

tic  world,  is  an  exact  portrait  of  Cecilia,  with  every  detail 
of  pose  and  garments,  as  then  shown,  faithfully  repre- 
sented. Baronius  and  Bosio,  to  whom  he  related  them, 
have  minutely  chronicled  all  the  circumstances  connected 
with  the  second  finding  of  her  body. 


180 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  CHURCH  UNDER  CONSTANTINE 

Constantino's  Edict  —  St.  Sylvester,  the  Friend  of  Constantine  —  Refuge  at 
Soracte  —  The  Emperor's  Vision  —  "  In  Hoc  Vinces  "  —  Constantine's 
Baptism  —  The  Church  Has  Peace  —  Helena's  Basilica  —  The  Blessing 
of  the  Golden  Rose  —  Origin  of  St.  Peter's  —  The  Obelisk  from  Heli- 
opolis  —  Testimony  of  the  Dust  of  the  Martyrs  —  The  Place  of  the 
Shock  of  Horses  —  The  Beauty  of  St.  Peter's  —  Pilgrims  from  Britain  — 
Charlemagne,  the  Blessed. 


the  Church  had  peace  1"  Those  few  words 
are  all  that  are  used  to  describe  the  overwhelm- 
ing relief  of  the  world  when  Constantine  caused  his  great 
edict  to  be  proclaimed  throughout  the  Empire.  "  Let 
none  henceforth  dare  to  molest  the  Christians  in  the  ex- 
ercise of  their  religion  or  in  the  building  of  Temples  to 
God." 

The  frightful  persecution  under  Diocletian,  more  cruel 
and  bloody  than  all  that  had  preceded  it,  had  been  con- 
tinued by  his  successor  Galerius,*  and  was  still  active, 
still  a  living  menace  to  the  faithful  ;  and,  as  they  had  done 
so  often  during  the  past  three  hundred  years,  they  had 
to  fly  to  their  underground  refuges  or  out  into  the  desert 
to  call  upon  the  rocks  and  mountains  to  cover  them.  St. 
Melchiades,  whom  St.  Augustine  calls  "  the  true  son  of 
the  Peace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,"  became  Pope  in 
311  and  suffered  such  great  tribulations  for  the  faith  in 

*  Galerius,  on  his  deathbed,  by  the  so-called  "  Edict  of  Sardis,"  dis- 
avowed his  errors  and  proclaimed  liberty  for  the  Christians,  but  the  war 
against  them  was  still  carried  on  both  by  the  usurping  Emperors  who  were 
Constantine's  rivals,  and  by  the  hatred  of  the  still  powerful  pagan 
Governors. 

181 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

the  beginning  of  his  pontificate  that  the  Church  reckons 
him  among  the  martyrs,  although  he  lived  to  see  her  tri- 
umph, dying  only  in  313.  To  him  succeeded  Sylvester, 
the  great  ruler,  the  friend  of  Constantine,  whose  name 
is  so  intimately  connected  with  the  foundation  of  the  two 
chief  basilicas  of  Christendom,  that  of  St.  John  Lateran 
and  that  of  St.  Peter's. 

Before  being  called  to  the  Papacy,  St.  Sylvester  had 
been  a  zealous  and  holy  priest  for  many  years,  but  dur- 
ing a  part  of  that  time  he  had  been  obliged  to  live  in 
hiding  on  Mount  Soracte,  the  strange  rock  which  raises 
itself  from  the  Campagna,  some  twenty-five  miles  to  the 
northeast  of  Rome,  to  culminate  in  a  precipitous  cliff 
two  thousand  two  hundred  and  seventy  feet  high  —  as  if 
arrested  by  the  sight  of  the  distant  city.  I  think  it  was 
Byron  who  compared  it  to  a  wave  about  to  break,  and  no 
other  simile  describes  it  half  so  well.  I  spent  a  heavenly 
day  there  in  my  youth  and  came  away  regretfully,  not 
only  because  of  the  superb  view  of  the  Apennine  panorama 
at  which  I  had  been  gazing,  but  because  of  the  ideal 
aloofness  and  sweetness  of  the  atmosphere  round  the 
ruined  convent  on  the  summit,  where,  though  I  was  then 
in  the  first  flush  of  youth,  I  would  gladly  have  remained 
for  years.  Soracte,  under  its  present  name,  was  well 
known  to  the  Romans;  Horace  had  sung  of  the  man- 
tle of  the  snow  that  lay  on  its  rough  sides  in  the 
winter;  Virgil  spoke  of  it  reverently  as  one  of  the  homes 
of  Apollo,  who  had  a  temple  there;  so  its  name  is  not 
a  contraction  of  St.  Oreste,  as  some  used  to  think,  though 
a  Church  and  monastery  were  dedicated  to  that  saint 
on  Soracte  very  early  in  our  era.  The  monk  who  acted 
as  our  guide  could  not  tell  me  much  about  him,  but  spoke 
of  St.  Sylvester's  sojourn  on  the  mountain  as  if  he  had 

182 


THE  CHURCH  UNDER  CONSTANTINE 

left  it  but  the  day  before.  The  lonely  peak  was  not 
always  lonely,  the  geologists  say.  Long  ages  previous  to 
the  foundation  of  Rome  the  Apennines  flung  out  their 
chain  thus  far;  then  came  great  heavings  in  earth's  fiery 
heart;  she  opened  and  the  hills  sank  back  whence  they 
had  come,  and  "  the  mountains  were  made  plain  ";  they 
disappeared,  leaving  this  solitary  vanguard  rock  to  mark 
their  vanished  limit  and  their  actual  sepulchre. 

How  gladly  must  Sylvester  have  sped  back  to  Rome 
over  the  long  Milvian  Way,  as  soon  as  he  could  resume 
his  sacred  duties  in  the  city  I  He  must  have  been  there 
when  Constantine,  with  his  great  host,  paused  at  the 
"  Saxa  rubra  "  (the  red  rocks  over  which  I  have  often 
wandered,  seeking  for  wild  flowers),  near  the  Milvian 
Bridge,  depressed  and  anxious,  and  very  fearful  that 
the  army  he  led  was  not  strong  enough  to  overcome  the 
usurper,  Maxentius,  who  had  fortified  himself  behind  its 
walls.  In  this  month  of  May,  1913,  Catholics  from  all 
over  the  world  are  thronging  to  Rome  to  take  part  in 
the  sixteen-hundredth  anniversary  of  that  day.  For 
Constantine,  hesitating  to  attack,  was  standing  without 
his  camp,  gazing  at  the  western  sky,  towards  which  the 
sun  was  sinking,  as  the  chroniclers  tell  us,  thinking  of 
what  lay  before  him,  thinking,  too,  of  what  lay  behind  — 
of  the  long  years  during  which  he  had  half  believed  in 
Christianity  without  being  made  a  Christian;  thinking  of 
what  would  happen  to  his  soul  should  he,  still  unbap- 
tised,  be  slain  in  the  now  inevitable  conflict;  thinking,  we 
may  be  sure,  of  his  good  mother,  Helena,  over  there  in 
Constantinople,  storming  Heaven  with  prayers  for  his 
safety.  It  was  all  enough  to  make  even  an  Emperor 
thoughtful,  and  Constantine  was  a  man  who  took  both 
this  life  and  the  next  very  seriously. 

183 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Then,  as  officers  and  men  watched  their  leader's  face 
grow  darker  and  more  gloomy,  and  the  reflection  of  his 
melancholy  began  to  gain  them  all,  "  airy  and  excellent  " 
the  vision  came.  Resting  on  the  setting  sun  as  on  a  ped- 
estal, and  paling  that  glory  by  its  own  more  dazzling 
splendour,  a  gigantic  cross  flamed  out  across  the  cloud- 
less sky,  and  as  all  gazed,  terror-stricken  and  breathless, 
these  words  wrote  themselve  in  fire  against  the  blue: 
"  In  hoc  vinces  "  * — "  In  this  thou  shalt  conquer!  "  The 
portent  hung  for  many  minutes,  some  say  for  an  hour, 
and  then  slowly  withdrew  into  the  empyrean,  and  the 
empty  sky  and  the  empty  Campagna,  the  gleaming  host 
and  the  proud  rebel  city,  alone  remained. 

And  Constantine  conquered.  Maxentius,  doomed, 
came  out  to  meet  him,  and  there  was  great  slaughter, 
in  which  the  upstart  thief  of  the  Purple  died  no  honour- 
able death,  but  was  pushed  off  the  bridge  in  the  furious 
melee  and  choked  in  Tiber's  mud.  And  Constantine 
caused  the  Eagles  to  be  replaced  by  the  Cross  on  his 
standards,  and  entered  in  triumph  to  throw  himself  at 
the  feet  of  Sylvester  and,  holding  up  his  poor  leprous  t 
hands  in  piteous  entreaty,  to  beg  for  health  and  baptism. 
Gladly  and  with  great  thanksgiving  the  Pope  baptised 
him,  and  the  water  that  washed  away  his  sins  cleansed 
his  flesh,  so  that  when  he  came  up  out  of  the  sacred  foun- 

*  These  words  are  always  quoted  in  Latin  and  so  I  transcribe  them, 
but  in  reality  they  appeared  in  the  Greek  tongue. 

t  There  is  a  mediaeval  legend  that  Constantine  had  been  advised  by 
the  pagan  priests  to  cure  his  leprosy  by  bathing  in  the  blood  of  three 
thousand  children,  and  that  he  was  about  to  immolate  that  number  for 
the  purpose,  when,  his  pity  being  aroused  by  the  despair  of  their  mothers, 
he  forbade  the  sacrifice.  That  this  is  a  pure  invention  is  patent,  for 
Constantine  was  a  just  and  merciful  man,  even  before  his  conversion, 
and,  when  he  came  to  Rome,  was  familiar  with  the  tenets  of  Christianity 
and  well  disposed  to  embrace  them. 

184 


THE  CHURCH  UNDER  CONSTANTINE 

tain  there  was  no  mark  of  leprosy  on  his  body  or  of  guilt 
upon  his  soul  — "  and  the  Church  had  peace." 

Constantine's  first  thought  was  now  to  honour  God  by 
some  splendid  testimony  of  his  gratitude,  and,  under  the 
direction  of  Sylvester,  he  built  the  Basilica  of  the  Holy 
Saviour,  called  also  St.  John's  before  the  Latin  Gate. 
It  was  here  that  the  evangelist  suffered  martyrdom  in 
intention,  was  cruelly  scourged,  and  plunged  in  boiling 
oil.  God  saved  his  life  in  order  that  he  might  write  his 
sublime  last  book  in  the  solitude  of  the  Isle  of  Patmos, 
whither  the  persecutors  exiled  him  after  their  attempts 
to  slay  him  had  failed;  and  to  him,  the  beloved  Virgin 
disciple,  Constantine  dedicated  this,  his  first  thank-offer- 
ing, called  ever  since  "  the  Mother  of  all  the  Churches  in 
the  World." 

After  that  came  Constantine's  own  mother,  Saint 
Helena,  to  Rome,  having,  to  her  eternal  glory,  discov- 
ered the  Saviour's  Cross  in  Jerusalem  and  desiring  to 
bring  a  part  of  that  sacred  Tree  to  the  centre  of 
Christendom. 

Standing  on  the  green  terrace  at  the  southern  end  of 
Constantine's  Basilica,  she  saw  a  great  empty  space,  be- 
yond which,  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  decline  that 
sinks  away  from  it  towards  the  southeast,  there  stood  a 
half-ruined  villa;  there  she  resolved  to  raise  the  trophy 
of  her  own  gratitude  and  to  provide  a  fitting  shrine  for 
the  inestimable  treasure  she  had  brought.  But  the  Cross 
was  still  to  rest  on  the  soil  that  Jesus  had  trod.  She 
caused  a  shipload  of  earth  to  be  brought  from  Jerusalem, 
and  on  this  the  foundations  of  the  Basilica  of  the  Holy 
Cross  were  laid,  contiguous  to  a  palace  which  was  her 
chosen  dwelling  during  her  sojourn  in  Rome.  The  Ba- 
silica, so  frequently  rebuilt  and  restored  that  probably 

185 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

no  part  of  the  exterior  would  now  be  recognised  by  the 
pious  Empress,  is  dark  and  bare,  but  symmetrical  in 
outline  and  possessing  a  severe  dignity  of  its  own.  It 
presents  a  marked  contrast  to  the  florid  yet  noble  south- 
ern portico  of  St.  John  Lateran,  and  the  long  green  ave- 
nue, shaded  by  double  rows  of  mulberry  trees,  which  used 
to  connect  the  two,  seemed  to  lead  the  spirit  by  fitting 
degrees  from  the  splendid  stability  of  Catholic  worship 
to-day  to  the  sterner  conditions  of  that  long-vanished 
past. 

Until  the  Papacy  transferred  its  seat  to  Avignon,  the 
green  plain  between  Helena's  Basilica  and  the  Lateran 
was,  once  a  year,  the  scene  of  a  beautiful  and  mystical 
ceremony.  On  the  Fourth  Sunday  in  Lent,  when  the 
Church,  to  encourage  her  children  in  their  forty  days' 
career  of  penance,  replaces  her  sombre  vestments  by  those 
of  crimson  and  gold  reserved  for  great  feasts,  when 
the  organ,  dumb  since  Ash  Wednesday,  once  more  fills 
the  cathedrals  with  joyous  music,  when  the  Mass  begins 
with  the  command  to  rejoice  —  then  the  Pope,  accom- 
panied by  the  Cardinals,  went  to  the  "  Mother  of  all  the 
Churches,"  St.  John  Lateran,  and  there,  with  a  prayer 
of  wonderful  beauty,  blessed  and  sanctified  the  "  Golden 
Rose."  The  rose  being  the  emblem  of  Divine  love,  shed- 
ding around  the  sweet  fragrance  of  charity,  often  found 
a  place  in  the  ceremonial  of  the  Church.  For  this  par- 
ticular occasion  a  cunning  jeweller  fashioned  a  flower  in 
pure  gold,  blossom  and  leaf  and  stem,  and  the  Pontiff 
prayed  to  the  Creator  of  all  beautiful  things,  who  was 
Himself  the  true  Joy  and  Hope  of  His  children,  to  bless 
the  flower  carried  as  a  sign  of  spiritual  joy,  in  order  that 
the  faithful,  contemplating  it,  might  raise  their  hearts 
to  the  heavenly  Jerusalem,  and  persevere  in  the  sweet 

186 


THE  CHURCH  UNDER  CONSTANTINE 

odour  of  good  works  until  they  should  be  eternally  united 
to  Him  who  is  the  flower  come  forth  from  the  branch 
of  Jesse,  who  called  Himself  the  Rose  of  Sharon  and  the 
Lily  of  the  Valley;  and  that,  in  the  company  of  all  the 
blessed,  they  might  glorify  forever  the  Divine  Flower 
who  shall  reign  in  Heaven  eternally. 

When  the  prayers  were  over,  the  Pope  came  forth 
from  the  Lateran,  wearing  the  mitre  and  holding  the 
Golden  Rose  in  his  hand;  mounting  his  white  palfrey,  and 
accompanied  by  the  whole  Pontifical  Court,  he  rode  down 
the  green  way  to  the  Basilica  of  the  Holy  Cross.  There 
he  preached  a  sermon  on  the  virtues  symbolised  by  the 
rose  (there  is  still  one  of  these  sermons  extant,  deliv- 
ered by  Innocent  III)  and  then  celebrated  Holy  Mass. 
When  that  was  over,  he  returned  on  horseback,  still  hold- 
ing the  Golden  Rose  and  followed  by  the  whole  gorgeous 
cavalcade  to  St.  John  Lateran,  where,  if  some  royal 
prince  happened  to  be  present,  his  was  the  honour  of  as- 
sisting the  Holy  Father  to  dismount,  and  he  received,  in 
reward  for  his  filial  piety,  the  Golden  Rose  from  the 
Pope's  own  hands. 

In  our  days  the  ceremony  of  blessing  the  Rose  takes 
place  in  a  hall  of  the  Vatican,  and  the  Holy  Father 
sends  it  as  a  gift  usually  to  some  Catholic  princess  —  I 
remember  that  a  few  years  ago  he  sent  one  to  our  little 
English  Queen  of  Spain.  I  heard  of  another,  and  a  very 
touching,  present  sent  by  Leo  XIII  to  a  royal  lady  who 
was  awaiting  the  birth  of  her  child  —  the  baby's  entire 
layette,  marvels  of  beauty  worked  by  the  nuns,  and  all 
blessed  by  the  Holy  Father  for  the  small  Christian  who 
was  to  wear  the  garments! 

After  founding  the  Church  of  St.  John  Lateran,  the 
zeal  of  Constantine  led  him  to  build  another  and  greater 

187 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

one  over  the  tomb  of  St.  Peter.  For  this  the  tomb  itself 
served  as  a  nucleus,  and  Constantine  would  have  no  hands 
but  his  own  dig  the  beginning  of  the  foundations.  "  Lay- 
ing aside  the  chlamys  "  (the  mantle  on  which  were  em- 
broidered the  insignia  of  his  rank)  "  he  opened  the  earth 
for  the  construction  of  the  Basilica.  Then  he  carried 
away  on  his  own  shoulders  twelve  basketfuls  of  earth,  in 
honour  of  the  twelve  Apostles."  The  work  thus  inaug- 
urated was  continued  under  his  direction.  The  body  of 
the  blessed  Apostle  was  at  this  time  brought  back  from  the 
Catacombs  to  its  original  resting-place  with  great  glory, 
and  encased  in  a  magnificent  silver  coffin  which  in  its  turn 
was  placed  inside  a  sarcophagus  of  gilt  bronze.  Constan- 
tine forbade  any  but  the  priests  to  touch  the  sarcophagus, 
under  pain  of  severe  punishment.  At  one  point  on  the 
way,  the  bearers  seemed  to  be  wavering  a  little,  and  a 
common  workman,  forgetting  the  Emperor's  orders, 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  steady  it.  There  was  no  need 
for  Constantine  to  punish  him,  for  the  poor  fellow's 
hand  shrivelled  up  at  the  contact,  only  to  be  restored  after 
earnest  prayers  for  forgiveness  of  this  irreverence. 

The  incident  may  be  legendary,  but  it  reminds  me  of 
a  later  and  more  authentic  one  connected  with  the  obelisk 
which  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's. 
This  huge  monolith  of  red  granite  was  brought  by 
Caligula  from  Heliopolis  —  the  scene  of  General  Kle- 
ber's  victory  and  violent  death  on  the  i4th  of  June,  1800, 
while  Marengo  was  being  fought  and  won.  Its  arrival 
caused  great  excitement  in  the  imperial  city  and  crowds 
went  out  to  see  it  as  it  lay  at  Ostia  in  a  ship  built  on 
purpose  to  carry  it  and,  as  Pliny  informs  us,  "  almost 
as  long  as  the  left  side  of  the  port  of  Ostia."  Unlike 
most  of  the  Egyptian  obelisks,  it  bears  no  inscriptions  of 

188 


any  kind  on  its  polished  sides.  It  first  stood  in  the  Circus 
of  Nero,  on  ground  now  covered  by  the  Sacristy  of  St. 
Peter's,  and  it  was  only  under  Sixtus  V,  in  1586,  that  it 
was  placed  in  its  present  position.  Its  enormous  size  and 
weight  (about  three  hundred  and  twenty  tons)  made  the 
moving  and  erection  a  labour  of  the  greatest  difficulty. 
The  work  was  superintended  by  Fontana,  the  eminent 
architect,  who  employed  eight  hundred  men  and  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  horses  to  drag  it  the  short  distance  to  the 
centre  of  the  Piazza.  Then  came  the  raising  and  plac- 
ing on  the  pedestal  prepared  for  it,  a  task  so  delicate  and 
anxious  that  Sixtus  forbade  any  one,  under  pain  of  death, 
to  utter  a  single  word  during  the  process.  Slowly  and 
unwillingly  the  huge  thing  submitted  to  be  raised  from 
the  ground,  but,  before  it  had  reached  the  perpendicular, 
that  happened  which  the  architect  had  not  foreseen  —  the 
enormous  cables  began  to  stretch.  The  strain  dragged  on 
them  so  fearfully  that  in  a  few  minutes  they  must  have 
parted  —  and  the  obelisk  would  have  thundered  to  the 
ground;  but  a  brave  sailor  man,  casting  self-preservation 
to  the  winds,  shouted,  "  Water  on  the  ropes."  Instantly 
he  was  obeyed;  a  thousand  hands  sent  the  buckets  flying 
along,  the  cables  were  drenched,  and  they  held  till  the 
giant  rose  obediently  in  air  and  settled  squarely  on  its 
base.  The  grateful  Pope  sent  for  the  brave  sailor  and 
asked  his  name  and  birthplace.  "  Bresca  of  Bordighera," 
was  the  answer.  What  he  gave  to  Bresca,  the  chronicler 
has  left  to  our  imagination  —  probably  enough  to  keep 
him  in  fat  comfort  to  the  end  of  his  days;  but  to 
Bordighera,  that  garden  of  the  Mediterranean  shore,  he 
gave  the  privilege  of  furnishing  forever  the  palms  used 
in  the  Church  on  Palm  Sunday;  and  down  to  1870  there 
came,  every  year,  a  ship  to  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber,  full 

189 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

to  the  gunwale  with  the  Bordighera  palm  branches,  which 
the  nuns  of  Sant'  Antonio  wove  and  plaited  into  a  thou- 
sand fanciful  shapes,  for  use  in  the  Palm  Sunday  pro- 
cession at  St.  Peter's. 

There  is  a  touching  story  connected  with  the  Piazza 
of  St.  Peter's.  Twenty  years  or  so  before  Sixtus  V  be- 
came Pope,  the  sainted  Pius  V  was  reigning  Pontiff  (1566- 
1572).  He  had  a  great  devotion  to  the  blessed  martyrs 
—  I  remember  possessing  a  little  terra-cotta  lamp  orna- 
mented with  Christian  emblems,  found  in  the  Catacombs, 
which  he  had  taken  in  his  hands  and  blessed  for  some 
pious  soul.  He  often  had  to  traverse  the  great  Piazza 
in  going  and  coming  from  the  Vatican,  and  he  never  did 
so  without  thinking  of  all  the  brave  Christian  blood  that 
had  been  shed  there  in  the  early  times.  One  day  he  was 
walking  across  the  Piazza  deep  in  conversation  with  the 
Ambassador  of  the  King  of  Poland,  when  suddenly  he 
paused,  remembering  the  soil  on  which  they  stood.  The 
place  was  unpaved  then,  and  the  Pope,  stooping  down, 
took  up  a  handful  of  earth  which  he  gave  to  the  Ambas- 
sador, saying:  "  Keep  this  dust,  for  it  is  composed  of  the 
ashes  of  the  saints  and  steeped  in  the  blood  of  the 
martyrs." 

The  Ambassador,  as  we  gather,  received  the  gift  more 
with  respect  for  the  hand  that  offered  it  than  for  its  own 
sake.  He  spread  out  his  handkerchief,  the  Pope  shed 
on  it  the  handful  of  dust,  and  the  courtly  Pole  rolled  it 
up  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

When  he  returned  to  his  palace,  he  drew  the  packet 
out,  doubtless  wondering  what  he  should  do  with  the 
rather  inconvenient  contents.  To  his  awe,  the  cambric 
was  wet  with  blood.  He  spread  it  out  —  the  earth  had 
vanished  and  not  a  grain  remained,  but  the  handkerchief 

190 


THE  CHURCH  UNDER  CONSTANTINE 

was  steeped  in  the  brave  blood  that  had  been  shed  for 
Christ  under  Nero  and  that,  as  one  writer  says,  "  had 
sprung  forth  again  to  attest,  in  the  face  of  heresy  and 
schism,  that  the  faith  of  the  Church  under  Pius  was  the 
same  as  the  faith  of  the  Church  under  Peter." 

Talking  of  Piazzas  —  the  one  which  immediately  con- 
ducted to  that  of  St.  Peter's  has  always  been  called 
"  Piazza  Scossa  Cavalli,"  the  place  of  the  "  shock  of 
horses,"  and  this  is  the  story  of  how  it  obtained  the  name. 
Constantine's  mother,  Helena,  was,  like  her  son,  some- 
what tardy  in  openly  professing  Christianity,  but  her 
whole  life  after  her  baptism  was  devoted  to  the  service 
of  God,  particularly  in  the  direction  of  preserving  and 
beautifying  the  holy  places  sanctified  by  the  life  and 
sufferings  of  the  Redeemer.  To  her  we  owe  the  finding 
of  the  True  Cross,  the  Crown  of  Thorns,  and  other  in- 
struments of  the  Passion;  it  was  she  who  built  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  and  the  one  on  Mount  Calvary, 
spots  which  the  pagans  had  marked  for  future  identifi- 
cation and  veneration  by  setting  up  idols  to  keep  the 
Christians  from  praying  there !  Among  other  things  she 
found  on  Mount  Moriah  the  stone,  scrupulously  preserved 
by  the  ancestor-loving  Jews,  on  which  Abraham  was  pre- 
paring to  sacrifice  Isaac  —  the  type  of  Christ  —  when 
the  Angel  staid  his  arm  and  told  him  that  the  Lord 
would  prove  his  faith  no  further.  This  stone  Helena 
conveyed  to  Rome,  intending  to  place  it  in  St.  Peter's; 
but  when  the  horses  dragging  the  wagon  which  contained 
it  reached  this  spot,  still  quite  distant  from  the  Basilica, 
they  "  jibbed,"  as  we  should  say,  and  no  power  on  earth 
could  induce  them  to  go  a  step  further. 

The  Empress,  her  counsellors,  and  all  the  people  took 
this  as  a  sign  that  Heaven  destined  the  consecrated  stone 

191 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

to  remain  in  that  place,  and  a  church,  "  San  Giacomo  a 
Scossa  Cavalli,"  was  built  and  still  stands  there  to  shelter 
Abraham's  Altar. 

Constantine's  Basilica  rose  in  strength  and  beauty,  and 
was  consecrated  in  326,  thirteen  years  after  that  I3th  of 
June,  313,  when  he  had  seen  the  vision.  Although  only 
half  the  size  of  the  present  Church,  it  was,  until  this  was 
built,  one  of  the  three  largest  in  Europe,  the  other  two 
being  those  of  Milan  and  Seville;  strangely  enough,  the 
three  were  all  of  equal  dimensions  —  three  hundred  and 
ninety-five  feet  long  by  two  hundred  and  twelve  in  width. 
Eighty-six  marble  pillars  divided  the  nave  of  St.  Peter's 
from  the  aisles  and  supported  the  roof;  and,  like  all  the 
basilicas,  it  had  a  rich  portico  running  all  along  its  front, 
also  decorated  with  columns.  The  interior  was  gorgeous 
with  gold  and  Byzantine  mosaic  and  precious  marbles, 
and  the  Church  itself  was  the  centre  of  a  great  mass 
of  other  sumptuous  buildings,  chapels,  and  offices  and 
monasteries,  for  the  housing  of  the  great  body  of  ecclesi- 
astics charged  with  the  service  of  the  Church  and  the 
keeping  of  the  archives.  The  Basilica  of  Constantine 
was  worthy  of  its  founder,  and  many  another  royal  and 
imperial  head  was  bent  there  in  worship  during  the  cen- 
turies that  followed;  yet  what  storms  and  vicissitudes 
assailed  it  before  it  sank  away  to  rise  again,  like  the 
phoenix  of  old,  in  the  glorious  pile  so  dear  to  our  hearts 
to-day!  Constantine  would  not  have  believed  —  what  it 
is  hard  for  us  to  accept  even  on  the  word  of  those  who 
saw  it  —  that  a  time  would  come  when  Rome's  rightful 
rulers  would  be  constrained  to  withdraw  not  only  from 
her,  but  from  Italy,  to  govern  the  Church  from  Avignon ; 
when  the  Mistress  of  the  World  would  barely  count 
thirty  thousand  souls  within  her  walls,  and  the  shepherds 

192 


THE  CHURCH  UNDER  CONSTANTINE 

of  the  Campagna  should  pasture  their  sheep  on  the  rank 
grass  that  covered  the  steps  of  St.  Peter's  and  all  the 
ground  around! 

Were  the  spirits  of  the  redeemed  permitted  to  con- 
template the  crimes  and  sorrows  of  earth,  how  some  of 
them  would  have  wept  over  the  apparent  decay  of  this 
most  sacred  of  fanes,  the  goal  so  eagerly  sought  by  all 
pilgrims,  gentle  or  simple,  during  the  Ages  of  Faith! 

Hither  came  Charlemagne,  and  many  other  great  ones, 
both  before  and  after  him,  some  worthy  of  Heaven's 
favour,  some  in  the  rebellious  attempt  to  enslave  the 
Church  and  make  her  work  for  them  instead  of  for 
Christ.  But  most  entered  St.  Peter's  with  humble  and 
sincere  hearts  and  it  is  noticeable  that,  of  the  famous 
royal  pilgrims,  the  larger  part  came  from  Britain.  One 
of  the  first  was  Cadwalla,  King  of  the  Saxons,  an  ardent 
convert  who  travelled  to  Rome  to  be  baptised  at  St. 
Peter's  tomb,  and  was  rewarded  for  his  faith  by  dying 
immediately  afterwards,  "  spotless  among  the  sheep  of 
Christ."  Then  we  are  told  of  the  holy  Cenred,  who  had 
renounced  the  throne  of  Mercia  to  become  a  monk  in 
Rome  and  who,  as  a  sign  of  his  sincerity,  cut  off  his 
flowing  locks  and  laid  them  at  the  shrine  of  the  Apostle; 
another  Briton,  good  King  Ina  of  Wessex,  comes  to  pray, 
and  to  found  a  Church  in  honour  of  the  Mother  of  God, 
so  that  his  subjects  who  come  on  pilgrimage  may  have 
their  own  sanctuary  to  pray  in  and  their  own  ground  to 
receive  their  bodies  should  they  die  in  Rome;  Offa,  the 
Saxon,  comes  to  ask  St.  Peter  to  consider  him  as  his  vassal 
and  Offa's  realm  as  a  loyal  tributary  of  his  own;  and, 
almost  greatest  of  all,  in  the  year  854,  our  Holy  Father, 
St.  Leo  IV,  being  the  reigning  Pope,  there  walks  one  day 
into  Constantine's  Basilica  a  big  fair-haired  Englishman 

193 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

called  Ethelwulf,  leading  a  little  boy,  six  years  old,  bright 
of  eye  and  sturdy  of  limb,  by  the  hand. 

Behind  them,  in  awed  silence,  comes  a  group  of  the 
white  and  ruddy  warriors  of  the  North,  gazing  in  wonder 
at  the  splendid  Church,  full  of  treasures  from  past  and 
West,  such  as  they  have  never  beheld  before.  They  voice 
their  admiration  in  gruff  whispers  in  a  strange  tongue, 
unintelligible  to  the  scattered  worshippers  around  them, 
who,  doubtless,  watch  them  with  some  apprehension,  ask- 
ing themselves  whether  their  coming  be  the  herald  of 
another  Gothic  invasion  of  Rome.  But  the  leader  of  the 
strangers  goes  up  to  the  High  Altar  and  kneels  for  a 
space,  the  child  kneeling  too,  but  clinging  tightly  to  his 
father's  hand.  Then  the  father  stands  up,  and,  ad- 
dressing one  of  the  attendant  priests  in  clear  Latin,  asks 
to  be  taken  to  the  Pope. 

It  is  Ethelwulf,  King  of  the  Anglo-Saxons;  he  has  come 
to  ask  the  Holy  Father  to  crown  him ;  and  the  little  boy, 
on  whom  the  Pope  smiles,  and  who  receives  the  pontifical 
blessing  so  blithely,  grows  up  to  be  Alfred  the  Great. 

But  among  all  the  pilgrims  of  those  ages  the  supreme 
figure  is  that  of  Charlemagne,  the  giant  in  heart  and  mind 
and  body  who  declared  that  he  only  ruled  to  extend  the 
reign  of  Christ  on  earth,  and  in  his  will  left  to  his  suc- 
cessors, as  the  most  precious  part  of  their  heritage,  the 
privilege  of  defending  and  sustaining' the  Church.  He 
had  passed  away  forty  years  before  Ethelwulf  brought 
his  little  son  to  Rome,  but  his  greatness  lived  after  him 
and  none  can  doubt  that  Alfred  pondered  his  wise  laws 
and  strove  to  imitate  the  wonderful  combination  of 
strength  and  justice  and  mercy  of  which  he  set  the  ex- 
ample. I  saw  his  crown,  in  the  Ambras  collection  at 
Vienna,  a  huge  straight  band  of  gold,  large  enough  to 

194 


THE  CHURCH  UNDER  CONSTANTINE 

slip  over  an  ordinary  man's  head  and  rest  on  his  shoul- 
ders, heavy  with  barbaric  jewels,  big  as  plover's  eggs, 
set  in  its  circle.  This  was,  I  think,  the  one  he  brought 
to  Rome,  when  having,  as  he  put  it,  "  with  the  help  of 
God  conquered  the  world,"  he  came  to  ask  St.  Leo  III 
to  crown  him  and  confirm  his  dominions.  The  portraits 
of  him  show  us  a  man  indeed  eight  feet  tall,  with  a  long 
face,  light  brown  beard,  and  big  anxious  eyes  —  eyes  that 
give  one  a  glimpse  of  the  great  mind  behind,  ever  asking 
itself  if  there  were  any  of  all  the  things  that  Heaven 
had  asked  of  him  left  undone.  One  fault  of  his  early 
life  has  been  so  often  cast  up  at  his  memory  that  it  is 
but  right  to  mention  it.  When  he  was  twenty-eight  or 
twenty-nine,  his  mother,  Bertrade,  a  Greek,  persuaded 
him,  apparently  on  the  grounds  of  some  irregularity  in 
the  marriage,  to  repudiate  his  queen,  Himiltrude,  and 
espouse  another,  of  her  choosing,  called  Hermengarde. 
The  reigning  Pope,  Stephen  IV,  on  learning  of  this  ac- 
tion, reprimanded  Charlemagne  sharply  and  commanded 
him  to  send  away  Hermengarde  and  recall  Himiltrude, 
which  command  the  monarch  obeyed,  the  second  wife 
having  held  her  place  barely  a  year.  After  Himiltrude's 
death  he  made  Liutgarde  his  queen;  she  also  died,  and 
Charlemagne  married  again,  more  than  once,  but  never 
gave  the  state  and  title  of  queen  to  any  woman  after 
Liutgarde's  death.  He  has  been  accused  of  having  more 
than  one  wife  at  a  time,  but  the  most  profound  and  im- 
partial students  of  history  declare  that  the  case  of  Himil- 
trude and  Hermengarde  does  not  constitute  bigamy  and 
that  there  is  no  shadow  of  support  for  the  calumny  in 
the  contemporary  chronicles. 

Charlemagne's  private  life  has  always  been  described 
as  remarkably  pure;  his  enactments  against  immorality 

195 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

are  terribly  stringent,  placing  illicit  connections  between 
unmarried  persons  on  the  same  footing  as  the  breaking 
of  the  marriage  vow;  and  more  than  once  he  published 
these  enactments,  intended  to  restrain  the  license  of  the 
nobles,  in  person,  in  full  council  of  bishops  and  the  nobles 
themselves,  who,  had  his  own  morals  been  assailable, 
would  not  have  hesitated  to  tell  him,  in  their  very  out- 
spoken way,  to  mend  his  practice  before  preaching  to 
others.  There  is  no  record  of  even  a  murmur  of  the 
kind.  Also  during  the  time  when,  according  to  his  de- 
tractors now,  he  was  living  in  sin,  he  was  the  close  friend 
and  pupil  of  two  holy  Popes  —  St.  Adrian  I  and  St.  Leo 
III,  consulting  them  at  every  step  and  following  their 
advice  with  devout  punctiliousness;  we  know  that  the 
Roman  Pontiffs  never  stood  on  ceremony  when  it  was  nec- 
essary to  remonstrate  with  Sovereigns  as  to  their  morals; 
yet  neither  of  these  saints,  supreme  in  Christendom,  ever 
addressed  a  word  of  reproach  to  Charlemagne.  On  the 
contrary,  they  showed,  in  their  relations  with  him,  the 
greatest  affection  and  respect.  The  question  of  his 
canonisation,  in  spite  of  his  heroic  virtues  and  the  miracles 
worked  at  his  intercession,  the  Church  left  where  it  was 
when  Frederick  Barbarossa,  in  the  second  half  of  the 
Twelfth  Century,  succeeded  in  having  him  canonised  by 
one  of  the  anti-Popes,  Paschal  III,  an  invalid  proceeding, 
of  course.  But  the  Church  calls  him  "  The  Blessed 
Charlemagne  "  and  permitted  his  feast  to  be  kept  in 
numberless  Churches  of  France  and  Germany;  until  our 
own  days  several  French  colleges  celebrated  it  by  a  ban- 
quet at  which  the  professors  mingled  on  an  equal  footing 
with  the  most  promising  of  their  students.  He  founded 
the  two  great  universities  of  Paris  and  Pavia,  was  deeply 
versed  in  theology  and  in  such  classical  literature  as  was 

196 


THE  CHURCH  UNDER  CONSTANTINE 

available  in  the  Ninth  Century;  and  is  perhaps  best  known 
to  us  moderns  by  his  hymn  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  which 
the  Church  uses  not  only  at  Pentecost,  but  on  almost  every 
day  of  the  year,  the  immortal  "  Veni  Sancte  Spiritus  "  so 
dear  to  us  all. 

It  would  be  too  long  a  task  to  enumerate  his  labours 
and  conquests  for  the  faith;  these  are  set  forth  in  detail  in 
the  old  Breviaries  of  France;  it  took  him  thirty-four  years 
to  subdue  the  idolatrous  Saxons,  alone,  and  the  only  pen- 
alty he  imposed  for  the  half  of  a  lifetime  spent  in 
arduous  struggles  was  that  they  should  listen  to  instruc- 
tion and  embrace  Christianity.  Always  hard  on  himself, 
fasting  often  for  a  week  at  a  time,  wearing,  except  on  great 
occasions,  rough,  simple  garments  which,  we  are  told, 
made  him  appear  like  one  of  the  humblest  of  his  subjects, 
his  charity  was  all-embracing  and  reached  to  the  confines 
of  the  known  world.  His  honest  humility  made  it  dan- 
gerous to  attempt  to  flatter  him  about  his  achievements. 
If  any  one  spoke  of  his  victories,  he  would  point  to  the 
lance  with  which  Longinus  pierced  the  Saviour's  side  and 
which  he  always  carried  with  him,  and  say,  "  Give  God 
the  glory  —  that  is  what  overcame !  " 

Oh,  that  we  might  sometimes  call  up  some  of  the  great 
visions  of  the  past!  Surely  there  was  never  one  more 
significant  and  impressive  than  on  the  day  when  Char- 
lemagne, surrounded  by  his  Paladins,  knelt  on  the  sacred 
stone  (still  marked  in  the  portico  of  St.  Peter's)  and  St. 
Leo  took  the  heavy  crown  in  his  aged  hands  and  placed 
it  on  that  magnificent  head.  Charlemagne  must  have 
been  one  of  those  of  whom  the  Prophet  spoke,  when  he 
said  that  the  kings  of  the  earth  should  bring  their  hon- 
our and  glory  into  Heaven.  Would  that  he  could  return 
to  us  who  so  need  to  see,  and  so  despair  of  seeing,  a  born 

197 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

ruler,  reigning  for  God.  Like  our  own  Arthur,  beloved 
of  grateful  and  worshipping  humanity,  the  hope  of  his 
return  never  quite  died  out.  In  the  places  where  he 
passed,  flashing  by  at  the  head  of  his  chosen  Paladins, 
is  it  only  fancy  that  still  makes  us  hear  the  thunder  of 
the  hoof-beats,  the  echo  of  the  voice  "  sweet  in  music, 
strong  in  speech,"  whose  commands  the  world  obeyed? 
the  echo  of  the  call  of  Roland's  horn  —  when  he  blew 
that  last  blast  and  Charlemagne,  hundreds  of  miles  away, 
leapt  forth  with  his  peers  to  the  rescue?  They  came  too 
late.  The  last  of  the  Paladins  fell  fighting  at  Ronces- 
valles,  far  from  where  Charlemagne  lies  with  his  fathers 
among  the  Savoyan  hills,  by  the  dreamy  Lake  of  Bourget. 
Never  had  monarch  a  fairer  resting-place.  In  a  long 
past  summer  I  rowed  across  the  lake  to  the  lovely  and 
splendid  sanctuary,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  when  twi- 
light was  descending,  mild  as  sleep,  on  the  mountains; 
and  earth  and  lake  and  sky  were  all  one  soft,  mysterious 
blue.  There  were  comrades  with  me,  young  and  gay  as 
I,  but  when  we  stood  beside  Charlemagne's  tomb  in  the 
dim  church,  a  great  silence  fell  upon  us.  We  felt,  though 
we  could  not  see,  the  great  angels  standing  round  that 
royal  grave  —  guarding  it  till  the  day  when  he  who  lies 
there  shall  come  forth,  and  all  the  generations  that  went 
before  and  have  come  after  him  shall  hear  from  God  the 
praise  he  would  not  take  from  men  — "  Well  done,  thou 
good  and  faithful  servant !  " 


198 


CHAPTER   XII 

STORY  OF  ALARIC 

Pursuit  of  the  Ideal — Alaric,  the  Friend  of  Theodosius — Theodosius' 
Dream — The  Victory  at  the  Birnbaumer  Wald — Defection  of  Alaric — 
Pictures  of  the  Plundering  of  Rome — Marcella  and  Principia — St. 
Peter's  Treasures — Plans  Against  Africa — Alaric's  Death  and  Last 
Resting-place. 

WHEN  Edmond  Rostand,  the  truest  poet  of  our 
latter  day,  wrote  his  "  Princesse  Lointaine,"  he 
embodied  the  most  ideal  passion  of  the  human  heart,  the 
desire  of  beauty  unseen.  The  Eternal  City  has  again  and 
again  inspired  a  like  overmastering  longing;  it  has  been 
called  by  other  names  —  ambition,  revenge,  desire  of  con- 
quest —  but  the  primal  sentiment,  in  the  most  notable 
cases  at  least,  reveals  itself  as  an  imperative  craving  to 
behold  and  possess  the  highest.  In  the  saints  the  aspi- 
ration leaps  from  earth  to  Heaven,  for  their  eyes  are 
opened  to  the  reality  and  the  shadow;  but  even  among 
mortals  denied  the  Divine  Spark,  this  hunger  for  the  best 
takes  on  something  of  the  sublime  and  translates  itself 
in  actions  not  to  be  altogether  accounted  for  by  merely 
human  motives.  Such  a  mortal  was  Alaric,  the  Visigoth, 
whose  name  still  sounds  to  us  across  the  ages  with  com- 
pelling power.  Driven  by  the  spirit,  earth-bound,  yet 
ever  straining  at  his  bonds,  fiercely  ambitious  yet  ready 
to  renounce  the  fruits  of  conquest  when  the  Voice,  un- 
heard of  others,  bade  him  renounce,  his  career  remains 
an  unexplained  mystery,  unless  we  are  willing  to  reckon 
with  the  supernatural  to  which  he  rendered  such  prompt 

199 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

obedience  when  its  commands  penetrated  the  din  of 
clamorous  necessity  and  reached  the  ear  of  his  soul. 

His  very  advent  has  all  the  emblems  of  a  portentous 
allegory.  Over  the  last  eastern  spur  of  the  Julian  Alps 
the  old  Roman  roadmakers  had  cut  one  of  their  splendid 
roads  to  connect  the  seat  of  Empire  with  the  North. 
4They  worked  along  the  lines  of  least  resistance,  thinking 
only  of  facilitating  the  movements  of  Roman  troops,  and 
not  at  all  of  possible  invaders  who  might  march  down 
to  Rome.  On  the  crest  of  the  pass  they  looked  for  a 
commanding  spot  to  serve  as  the  site  for  a  garrison  sta- 
tion; the  season  was  early  summer  and  their  glance  at 
once  fell  on  an  enormous  pear  tree,  a  dome  of  snowy 
blossoms  visible  for  many  a  mile  around.  That  decided 
the  question,  and  they  built  their  military  hamlet  beside 
it,  and  called  it  "  At  the  Pear  Tree,"  "  Ad  Pimm,"  a 
name  which  was  afterwards  bestowed  on  the  whole  dis- 
trict, which  is  known  to  us  now  as  the  "  Birnbaumer 
Wald."  To  this  station  came,  in  the  first  days  of  Sep- 
tember, 394  A.D.,  Theodosius  the  Great,  to  meet  and 
subdue  the  "  little  Graunnarian  Emperor,"  Eugenius,  and 
his  terrible  dictator,  Arbogast,  in  the  "  Battle  of  the 
Frigidus,"  which  turned  the  course  of  European  history 
and  left  the  world  —  as  Constantine  had  hoped  to  leave 
it  —  Christian  and  not  pagan. 

With  Theodosius  came  a  young  Visigothic  chieftain 
of  noble  birth,  Alaric  by  name,  commanding  a  company 
of  his  countrymen,  the  valiant  warriors  with  whom  Theo- 
dosius strove  to  surround  himself  when  there  was  real 
fighting  to  be  done.  They  called  their  young  leader  not 
"  Alaric,"  but  "  Balthe,"  "  the  Bold,"  revered  him  as 
sprung  from  a  line  that  had  for  its  founders  the  gods  of 
Walhalla,  and  were  prepared  to  follow  him  to  Heaven 

200 


STORY  OF  ALARIC 

or  Hell.  Whither  they  were  to  follow  him  in  the  end, 
I  fancy,  was  decided  on  that  September  day  when,  hav- 
ing secured  a  spot  for  their  camp  and  seen  that  all  things 
were  in  order,  he  went  and  stood  under  the  big  pear  tree 
and  looked  down  on  the  beautiful  vale  of  Carniola,  flush- 
ing to  harvest,  rioting  in  fruit,  sheltered  on  the  north 
and  east  by  the  vigilant  Alps,  and  cooled  by  the  mighty 
rush  of  the  Frigidus,  which  we  call  the  Wipbach,  and 
which  bursts  full-grown,  ice-fed,  from  the  foot  of  the 
hills,  and  dashes  along  under  banks  so  teeming  with  fruit 
and  grain,  at  that  time  of  the  year,  as  to  be  almost  hid- 
den from  sight.  Tearing  down  from  the  caves  of  Adels- 
berg,  it  follows  the  lie  of  the  land  till  it  enters  Italy, 
changes  name  and  nationality,  becomes  the  Isonzo,  and 
finally,  joining  the  other  streams  flowing  down  from  the 
north,  empties  itself  into  the  Adriatic  at  Aquileia. 

This  is  Alaric's  first  appearance  in  history,  and  we 
can  hardly  doubt  that  with  his  first  view  of  the  paradise 
that  lay  south  of  the  Alps  came  also  the  first  faint  echo 
of  the  call  that  haunted  him  all  his  life,  "  Penetrabis  ad 
Urbem  " —  "  Thou  shalt  penetrate  to  the  city  "  -  the 
city  towards  which  every  northerner  looked  with  covetous 
longing  and  superstitious  fear,  but  which  its  own  rulers, 
at  least  in  Alaric's  time,  regarded  rather  as  a  venerable 
part  of  the  insignia  of  the  Empire  than  as  an  active  agent 
in  its  affairs.  Alaric,  when  he  first  looked  towards  Italy, 
was  a  loyal  ally  of  Theodosius,  and  would  have  hotly 
resented  the  assertion  that  a  day  would  come  when  he 
should  sweep  the  country  as  an  invader  and  a  declared 
foe  of  the  great  man's  son.  But  (how  true  is  the 
Japanese  proverb,  "  Great  generals  have  no  sons!  ")  the 
feeble-minded  Honorius  again  and  again  refused  the  hon- 
est alliance  and  friendship  proffered  by  the  Goth,  and 

201 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

was  thus  alone  responsible  for  those  terrible  six  days  of 
sack  and  pillage  which  desolated  Rome  sixteen  years 
(almost  day  for  day)  after  Alaric  had  fought  so  whole- 
heartedly for  Theodosius  in  the  Battle  of  the  Frigidus. 

That  was  indeed  a  hard-fought  fight;  Arbogast  knew 
every  inch  of  the  country,  his  troops  outnumbered  those 
of  Theodosius,  and  the  cunning  old  soldier  had  so  dis- 
posed them  that,  unknown  to  the  Emperor,  they  cut  off 
every  line  of  march  save  the  narrow  one  by  which  he 
had  come.  The  first  day's  fighting  resulted  in  a  prac- 
tical defeat  for  the  loyalists,  and  as  the  night  came  down 
and  hostilities  were  necessarily  suspended,  Theodosius 
realised  with  anguish  that  the  next  day's  sun  would  prob- 
ably see  paganism  triumphant  and  the  Cross  of  his  stand- 
ards trampled  underfoot.  He  had  lost  great  numbers 
of  men;  those  who  remained  were  deeply  discouraged, 
and  he  doubted  whether  they  could  be  persuaded  to  meet 
the  enemy  again.  From  the  adversary's  camp  came 
shouts  of  triumph  and  sounds  of  feasting;  he  was  passing 
the  night  in  celebrating  what  he  reckoned  as  a  conclusive 
victory.  Theodosius  wandered  away  alone  into  the  hills 
and  remained  all  night  in  fervent  prayer  that  God  would 
help  the  right  and  vindicate  His  own  cause.  As  the  dawn 
came  up  behind  the  eastern  hills  the  Emperor  fell  asleep 
and  had  a  wonderful  dream.  In  his  dream  he  saw  two 
radiant  knights,  clothed  in  white  and  mounted  on  white 
horses,  come  towards  him.  They  told  him  that  they  were 
John  and  Philip,  the  Apostles  of  the  Lord,  and  that  he 
should  be  of  good  courage,  for  God  had  heard  his  pray- 
ers. Theodosius  awoke,  but  only  to  begin  praying  again; 
nor  did  he  cease  until,  just  as  the  sun  leapt  up  behind  the 
Nanosberg,  an  officer  came  running  to  tell  him  of  a  won- 
derful dream  that  one  of  his  soldiers  had  had  —  and 

202 


STORY  OF  ALARIC 

described  the  same  vision  that  had  visited  and  comforted 
the  Emperor. 

Then  indeed  Theodosius  knew  that  he  should  prevail, 
but  he  neglected  no  smallest  point  that  could  aid  him 
to  victory.  When  all  was  ready  he  made  the  sign  of 
the  Cross,  the  preconcerted  signal  of  attack,  and  hurled 
his  men  on  the  foe,  who  was  somewhat  dazed  and  disor- 
ganised after  the  night's  excesses.  Still  Arbogast's  men 
fought  so  fiercely  that  the  issue  seemed  once  more  waver- 
ing in  the  balance,  and  then  the  great  Emperor,  like 
another  David,  rising  in  his  saddle,  shouted,  "  Where  is 
the  Lord  God  of  Theodosius?  "  and  dashed  into  the  thick- 
est of  the  fray.  Like  those  other  valiant  ones,  who  car- 
ried no  weapons,  his  soldiers  said,  "  Let  us  perish  with 
him!  "  and  flew  to  follow;  and  then  the  Lord  God  of 
Theodosius  let  loose  His  servant,  the  terrible  "  Bora," 
the  wind  that  science  cannot  account  for,  that  blows  once 
in  a  century  or  once  in  a  decade,  as  the  case  may  be, 
and  always  carries  death  on  its  wings.  From  behind  the 
spurs  of  the  Alps  it  roared  down  that  day,  as  if  placed 
under  the  Emperor's  orders,  and  in  its  fury  the  very  darts 
of  Arbogast's  men  were  turned  back  and  buried  in  the 
bowmen's  flesh. 

It  was  a  great  victory,  one  of  the  decisive  battles  of 
the  world,  and  Alaric  had  helped  to  win  it,  but  from  that 
day  his  enthusiasm  for  the  Emperor  waned.  Theodosius 
had  given  him  to  understand  that,  if  Eugenius  and  Ar- 
bogast  were  subdued,  he  should  be  promoted  to  high 
military  office  and,  in  time,  be  entrusted  with  the  com- 
mand of  Roman  troops  in  the  very  centre  of  any  future 
line  of  battle;  but  Theodosius  forgot,  or  trusted  that 
Alaric  had  forgotten  the  hopes  thus  held  out,  and  the 
proud  young  chief  found  himself  still  in  the  second  rank, 

203 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

a  leader  of  auxiliaries,  while  the  foremost  honours  of 
conflict  remained  with  men  whom  his  soul  disdained  and 
his  intelligence  discredited.  There  was  no  open  rupture 
till  after  the  death  of  Theodosius  on  the  iyth  of  January, 
395,  little  over  four  months  after  the  battle  of  the 
Frigidus.  The  Goths  had  long  been  murmuring  that  they 
were  weary  of  fighting  the  Romans'  battles  for  them  and 
would  prefer  to  fight  for  themselves;  Alaric's  allegiance 
to  the  Emperor  had  been  in  great  part  a  personal  matter; 
the  feeble  boys,  Arcadius  and  Honorius,  who  were  now 
hailed  as  the  Emperors  of  the  East  and  West,  had  in- 
herited none  of  the  great  attributes  which  the  young  Goth 
had  admired  and  respected  in  their  father,  and  were 
mere  tools  in  the  hands  of  their  ministers,  whose  policy 
did  not  lead  them  to  encourage  or  highly  recompense  their 
Barbarian  allies;  and  so  it  came  about  that  soon  after  St. 
Ambrose  had  pronounced  his  immortal  funeral  oration 
over  the  body  of  Theodosius,  the  Goths,  camped  on  the 
fair  Illyrian  plain,  took  Alaric,  placed  him  on  a  shield, 
and,  raising  it  high  on  their  shoulders,  broke  forth  into 
a  mighty  shout  echoed  by  all  their  comrades :  "  Theodo- 
sius !  Theodosius !  "  "A  King,  a  King !  " 

And  he  was  a  born  king  who  stood  there,  smiling  down 
on  them  as  his  graceful  young  figure  balanced  itself  so 
lightly  and  easily  on  the  upraised  shield  —  and  not  only 
a  king,  but  a  king-maker  and  the  first  of  a  long  line  of 
Kings,  ruling  over  that  which  was  destined  to  be  for  ages 
the  richest  and  most  Catholic  realm  in  Europe,  the  King- 
dom of  Spain  —  the  true  Fatherland  of  dead  Theodosius. 
But  Alaric's  thoughts  travelled  not  thither;  when  his 
spirit  freed  itself  at  a  leap  from  all  the  practical  sur- 
roundings of  his  life,  when  the  veil  of  the  present  was 
drawn  aside  in  dreams,  and  the  future,  vague  yet  glori- 

204 


STORY  OF  ALARIC 

ous,  revealed  itself  for  a  fleeting  moment  to  his  eyes,  it 
was  Rome  that  they  saw,  insolent  and  mighty  even  in 
her  decay,  pagan  at  heart  still,  and  it  was  he,  Alaric,  who 
was  to  chastise  her  for  her  sins  and  cleanse  her  from  her 
corruption.  His  Arian  impiety,  shared  with  almost  all 
his  countrymen,  in  no  way  diminished  his  zeal  for  Chris- 
tianity as  he  apprehended  it,  though  it  is  hard  for  us  to 
reckon  as  Christians  the  Arian  detractors  from  the 
divinity  of  Christ.  Even  in  our  own  day  the  Unitarians 
are  indignant  when  we  refuse  the  appellation  to  them  — 
so  coveted  are  the  virtues  of  Christianity  by  those  who 
make  of  Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  a  liar  and  a  fraud! 

So  the  spring  of  395  saw  Alaric  start  on  a  conquering 
career  for  himself,  an  enterprise  great  enough  to  suit  his 
soaring  ambition,  and  aided,  all  unconsciously,  by  the 
Huns,  who  chose  the  same  moment  for  their  first  descent 
on  Europe.  The  enfeebled  empires  of  the  East  and  West 
were  appalled  at  the  flood  of  devastation  thus  let  loose 
and  scarcely  knew  which  foe  to  meet  first  —  Alaric  in 
Greece  (whither  he  first  turned  his  steps)  or  the  Huns, 
who  were  pouring  over  the  Caucasus  and  terrifying  Cen- 
tral Europe  with  their  hideous  faces  and  savage  war-cries. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  last  days  of  the  world  had  come,  and 
black  despair  breathes  out  of  every  page  of  the  chronicles 
of  the  time.  But  Alaric  at  least  had  no  idea  of  con- 
tinuous fighting  for  mere  fighting's  sake;  and  although  he 
did,  when  it  suited  him,  permit  orgies  of  plunder  to  his 
followers,  he  showed  again  and  again  the  most  unex- 
pected and,  as  we  should  call  it,  capricious  moderation, 
renouncing  suddenly,  and  without  apparent  motive,  the 
entire  fruits  of  a  hard-won  victory.  Thus,  when  Athens 
with  all  its  riches  lay,  a  tamed  captive,  to  his  hand,  one 
of  those  strange  revulsions  of  feeling  came  over  him 

205 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

and  he  made  peace  with  its  rulers,  entered  the  city  as 
their  guest,  and  left  it  without  having  touched  any  of 
its  treasures.  Twice  he  stood  before  the  Gates  of  Rome 
and  twice,  in  obedience  to  the  Inner  Voice  that  had  sent 
him  there,  halted  at  the  sacred  threshold  and  withdrew, 
exacting,  however,  a  heavy  indemnity  to  pacify  his  troops. 
But  when,  in  just  rage  at  the  folly  of  Honorius,  he 
stood  for  the  third  time  before  Rome's  gates,  neither 
the  promptings  of  the  "  Voice  "  nor  the  entreaties  of  the 
holy  monk  who  had  attempted  to  stay  him  and  had 
prophesied  his  doom  should  he  persist,  could  turn  him 
from  his  resolve  to  take  the  city.  And  it  is  for  the  sake 
of  my  city  that  I  have  told  these  few  scanty  details  of 
the  story  of  Alaric.  His  invasion  was  to  be  the  proto- 
type of  many  another,  but  this  is  the  first  picture  thrown 
out  by  the  magic  lantern  of  history  showing  a  self-styled 
Christian  and  his  horde  robbing,  destroying,  dishonour- 
ing in  the  very  streets  of  the  Capital  of  Christianity.  The 
Goths  were  given  but  six  days  (some  writers  say  only 
three)  in  which  to  sate  the  thirst  for  riches  and  treasures 
which  the  intercourse  with  Rome  and  Constantinople  had 
long  ago  aroused  in  their  hearts.  On  Alaric's  former 
visit  a  great  part  of  the  tribute  exacted  had  been  stipu- 
lated for  in  costly  garments,  and  —  of  all  things !  - 
pepper,  a  luxury  already  highly  prized  by  the  Barbarians, 
perhaps  as  stimulating  to  their  naturally  noble  thirst  for 
strong  drinks;  this  time  every  man  helped  himself,  the 
only  prohibitions  proclaimed  extending  to  holy  vessels  per- 
taining to  the  great  sanctuaries.  It  is  claimed  for  Alaric 
that  he  forbade  bloodshed,  but,  if  he  did,  the  command 
was  disregarded,  as  the  contemporary  lamentations  of 
St.  Jerome  and  St.  Augustine  show  us  there  was  terrible 
slaughter,  the  citizens  probably  attempting,  at  all  risks, 

206 


STORY  OF  ALARIC 

to  defend  their  goods  and  their  women.  St.  Jerome's 
quiet  retreat  at  Bethlehem  was  crowded  with  refugees, 
the  cream  of  Roman  aristocracy,  who  gave  him  such  ter- 
rible descriptions  of  the  downfall  of  the  city  that  he  was, 
as  he  tells  us  himself,  utterly  overcome  with  sorrow  and 
despair.  It  was  on  learning  of  the  ruin  of  the  Mistress 
of  the  World  that  St.  Augustine,  once  more  convinced  of 
the  passing  nature  of  earthly  things,  conceived  the  idea 
of  writing  his  great  work,  "  De  Civitate  Dei,"  showing 
the  indestructibility  of  God's  City  of  the  Soul,  the  mar- 
vellous spiritual  edifice  not  made  with  hands,  of  which 
every  true  Christian  is  co-builder  and  co-heir. 

Alaric  prided  himself  on  his  Christianity,  but  the  sec- 
tarian hatred  of  many  things  that  Catholicism  reveres 
was  so  irrepressible  that,  as  I  have  already  related,  the 
tombs  of  the  martyrs  were  sacked  whenever  they  were 
discovered,  and  the  traces  of  their  blessed  footsteps  all 
but  obliterated  in  many  of  the  Catacombs.  There  were, 
too,  some  of  the  fairest  virtues  of  Christianity  in  which 
the  Arian  conquerors  simply  refused  to  believe;  charity, 
self-denial,  voluntary  poverty  for  Christ's  sake  —  these 
were  such  unbelievable  folly  in  the  eyes  of  those  baptised 
Barbarians  that  they  laughed  at  and  punished  them  as 
various  forms  of  fraud.  One  pitiful  picture  stands  out 
from  the  red  reek  of  those  awful  six  days  —  that  of  the 
saintly  Lady  Marcella,  living  in  her  old  age  in  her  palace 
on  the  Aventine,  whence  every  object  of  value  had  long 
vanished  —  to  feed  the  orphan  and  the  widow.  Her  only 
earthly  treasure  is  one  sweet  girl,  her  adopted  daughter, 
Principia,  who  repays  her  love  with  all  the  devotion  of 
a  young  heart,  and  follows  her  example,  asking  nothing 
from  life  but  the  honour  of  serving  Christ  in  His  suf- 
fering poor.  No  slaves  surround  the  two  noble  women; 

207 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

their  garments  are  mean  and  threadbare  in  the  eyes  of 
men,  though  they  look  marvellously  rich  to  their  Guar- 
dian Angels.  Alone  in  their  empty  palace  they  two  pray 
and  weep  while  the  roar  of  the  sack  and  the  shrieks  of 
the  dying  sound  up  from  the  streets  below.  Then  the 
invaders  have  sighted  the  fair  palace  on  the  hill;  there 
is  a  rush  for  the  entrance  —  every  man  would  be  the 
first  to  pick  his  loot  from  the  treasures  it  must  contain. 
Marcella  drags  Principia  to  a  remote  hiding-place  — 
those  fierce  eyes  only  rest  on  youth  and  beauty  to  destroy 
—  and  returns  to  face  the  robbers,  alone.  The  great 
fair-haired  fellows,  drunk  with  license,  crowd  round  her, 
shouting  in  their  uncouth  tongue  that  she  must  bring  forth 
her  treasures.  In  vain  the  delicate  old  lady  assures  them 
that  she  has  none,  that  the  threadbare  garments  she  points 
to  are  the  only  ones  she  possesses,  and  that  the  only  ves- 
sels she  uses  are  those  common  earthenware  cups  and 
jars  in  the  corner,  that  all  the  rest  has  gone  to  the  poor. 

"  It  is  a  lie !  "  they  cry.  "  A  lie !  You  have  buried 
your  gold  and  silver  —  show  us  where  it  is !  " 

She  calls  on  Heaven  to  witness  that  she  has  nothing, 
nothing  but  what  they  see,  but  the  lust  of  gold  has  driven 
them  mad.  They  seize  her,  throw  her  to  the  ground,  and 
beat  her  with  their  heavy  clubs  till  she  is  all  but  dead. 
Yet  her  heart  lives.  She  has  been  praying  for  one  thing 
in  her  torture  and  now  she  asks  it  of  them  as,  weary  of 
her  obstinacy,  they  turn  to  search  the  dwelling  for  them- 
selves : 

"  One  thing  I  ask  of  you,  and  I  freely  forgive  you 
all  your  cruelty.  Leave  me  my  daughter  Principia  — 
let  me  live  for  her  sake.  She  is  young  —  timid  —  if  we 
are  separated  —  if  she  is  left  desolate  of  my  protection  — 
she  will  die  of  despair  1  " 

208 


STORY  OF  ALARIC 

Then  they  believed,  and  they  went  out  quietly,  mur- 
muring to  one  another:  "  The  poor  old  creature  is  mad 
—  who  ever  heard  of  voluntary  poverty?  "  But  they  mo- 
lested her  no  more.  And  she  recovered  from  the  effect 
of  their  blows,  and  soon  after  left  Rome,  taking  her  dear 
Principia  with  her,  and  they  went  to  a  far  country,  where 
they  served  God  according  to  the  counsels  of  perfection, 
and,  when  their  time  came,  died  in  peace. 

One  other  picture  from  those  memorable  days  stands 
out  —  not  sadly,  but  in  an  almost  humorous  light. 
Alaric,  with  all  his  Arian  fierceness,  had  a  great  venera- 
tion for  the  Shrine  of  St.  Peter  and  for  the  other  great 
Churches;  any  one  who  took  sanctuary  in  them  was  to  be 
safe,  and  he  forbade  his  men  to  touch  any  of  the  vessels 
pertaining  to  sacred  worship.  Now,  St.  Peter's  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  number  of  convents  and  other  buildings 
connected  with  its  service,  and  one  morning  a  big  Goth, 
unaware  that  he  was  treading  on  forbidden  ground, 
walked  into  one  of  these  buildings  to  see  what  he  could 
find.  He  was  immediately  confronted  by  a  very  old  nun, 
who  boldly  asked  him  what  he  was  doing  there?  He  re- 
plied that  he  was  in  search  of  gold  and  silver,  that  he 
was  certain  she  had  treasures  concealed  in  the  house,  and 
that  she  must  produce  them  at  once. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  meekly,  "  I  have  much  silver  and 
gold.  I  will  show  it  to  you."  And,  to  the  Goth's  huge 
delight,  she  brought  out  of  various  hiding-places  such 
an  array  of  precious  objects  as  he  had  never  yet  beheld. 
Silently  she  spread  them  all  before  him  —  chalices  and 
patens  of  pure  gold,  lamps  and  candlesticks  of  bronze  and 
silver  —  till  he  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes  and  began 
to  wonder  how  he  could  carry  them  all  away. 

Then  the  nun  spoke.  "  This  is  all,"  she  said.  "  Be- 

209 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

hold  these  great  treasures !  There  is  no  one  in  the  house 
but  myself,  and  I  am  an  old  woman,  too  feeble  to  guard 
them.  BUT  —  they  belong  to  St.  Peter,  and,  if  you  lay 
so  much  as  a  finger  on  one  of  them,  the  wrath  of  Heaven 
will  strike  you  dead !  " 

That  was  enough.  The  terrified  warrior  fled,  and, 
rushing  to  Alaric,  told  him  what  he  had  seen.  "  St. 
Peter's  treasures?  "  cried  the  chief.  "  They  shall  indeed 
be  taken  care  of !  "  And  he  commanded  one  of  his  officers 
to  lead  a  great  body  of  men  to  the  deserted  house  and 
see  that  the  old  nun  and  the  holy  vessels  were  deposited 
inside  the  Basilica.  So  that  quarter  of  the  city  showed 
a  strange  sight  to  its  inhabitants  —  a  hundred  or  so  of 
sturdy  Goths,  tricked  out  in  stolen  silks  and  gems,  each 
carrying  a  bit  of  St.  Peter's  property  in  devout  fear,  as 
if  expecting  that  it  would  blow  him  up;  and  in  their 
midst,  blinking  at  the  sunlight,  a  shabby  old  nun,  who 
directed  their  steps  and  issued  her  orders  as  to  where 
everything  should  be  placed  when  the  frightened  proces- 
sion finally  defiled  into  the  great,  dark  Church,  and  halted 
as  far  as  possible  from  the  High  Altar  and  the  Tomb 
of  the  Apostle. 

But  St.  Peter  did  not  save  Alaric.  Doom  was  waiting 
for  him  and  to  doom  he  marched  unknowingly,  though 
I  believe  he  would  not  have  swerved  from  the  path  had 
he  seen  with  his  eyes  its  unsheathed  sword.  He  had 
taken  Rome  —  but  Rome,  devastated,  famine-stricken, 
plague-scourged,  as  she  was  then,  would  have  been  a  mere 
empty  flare  of  glory  in  his  crown,  without  Rome's  store- 
house and  granary,  Africa.  Like  England  to-day,  she 
had  long  outgrown  any  possibility  of  dependence  on  her 
own  supplies  and  she  had  to  be  fed  from  abroad.  When 
the  African  grain  ships  were  delayed  on  their  way,  Rome 

210 


STORY  OF  ALARIC 

and  many  of  her  provinces  went  hungry;  so  Alaric's  next 
move  was  towards  Africa.  He  went  down  through  the 
"  Regno,"  pausing  not  except  at  Nola,  the  place  destined 
long  centuries  after  to  be  glorified  by  St.  Alphonsus'  pas- 
torate. Thence  he  hurried,  past  all  the  riches  and  beauty 
of  that  teeming  garden  country,  towards  Reggio  in 
Calabria,  meaning  apparently  to  take  ship  from  Sicily 
for  the  opposite  coast. 

But  he  never  reached  Reggio;  death  was  waiting  for 
him  at  Cosenza.  All  we  know  is  that  it  was  quick,  if  not 
sudden.  And  then  came  that  funeral  which  the  world 
can  never  forget.  Where  two  rivers  meet,  the  greater 
one,  the  Busento,  was  dammed  up  and  turned  aside  into 
its  sister  stream,  the  Crati,  and  in  the  bed  thus  laid  bare 
Alaric's  last  bed  was  made.  There  they  buried  him  who 
was  born  on  an  island  at  the  mouth  of  the  Danube,  so 
that  the  music  of  rushing  waters  might  soothe  his  last 
sleep  as  it  had  soothed  his  first.  Great  treasure  they  laid 
with  him  in  his  deep  grave,  and  horses  and  weapons,  that 
he  might  ride  in  state  to  meet  his  peers  in  Valhalla  —  for 
Valhalla  was  still  Paradise  for  them.  And  they  sang  their 
great  old  war  songs  for  his  farewell,  sounding  his  tri- 
umphs in  his  ears  to  the  end,  while  the  captives  who  had 
raised  the  dam  dug  it  down,  each  man  with  the  sweat 
of  death  on  his  brow,  for  the  war  songs  were  to  be 
their  requiem,  too.  When  the  Busento  roared  back  to 
its  bed  and  took  its  own  old  way  to  the  sea,  it  carried 
their  corpses  with  it,  and  the  warriors  turned  away  satis- 
fied, because  none  could  point  out  and  none  could  disturb 
Alaric's  last  resting-place. 


211 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  SPHINX  OF  FRENCH  HISTORY 

The  Battleground  of  Europe— The  Riddle  of  "The  Man  in  the  Iron 
Mask  " — Its  True  Story — Louis  XIV's  Ambition  in  Italy — Plot  to 
Secure  Casale — Character  of  Charles,  Duke  of  Mantua — Count  Mat- 
tioli,  His  Favourite — Terms  of  the  Transfer — Mission  of  the  Count 
to  Paris — Conclusion  of  the  Treaty — Mattioli's  Double  Dealing — 
Ominous  Delays — The  Storm  Breaks. 

IT  is  a  far  cry,  geographically  speaking,  from  Rome 
to  the  vast,  alluvial  plain  of  Lombardo-Venezia,  that 
most  bloodstained,  perhaps,  of  all  the  districts  of  the 
earth;  for,  if  Flanders  has  been  called  the  cock-pit  of 
Europe,  the  immense  lowlands  of  upper  Italy  may  with 
equal  justice  lay  claim  to  the  title  of  the  battlefield  of  the 
old  world. 

Scarcely  a  parish  of  it,  from  Rivoli  in  the  west,  to 
Aquileia  in  the  east,  but  has,  at  one  time  or  another- — 
and,  in  many  instances,  not  once  but  again  and  again 
—  been  deluged  with  the  blood  of  armies  and  of  indi- 
viduals in  public  and  private  struggles  during  the  course 
of  the  centuries.  From  Rivoli,  rock-bound  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Savoy  and  Alps,  across  to  sad  Aquileia,  slowly  de- 
caying among  its  fever-stricken  rice-fields  by  the  Adriatic 
lagoons,  shades  of  Massena's  Frenchmen  may  well  look 
over  to  where  their  hereditary  foes  first  poured  into  the 
southern  "  Mayland,"  as  they  named  it  under  the  leader- 
ship of  Attila,  a  thousand  and  three  hundred  and  forty- 
five  years  earlier;  whilst,  between  the  two,  the  dust  of 
innumerable  armoured  condottieri  and  "  Landsknechte  " 
of  the  middle  ages  and  the  Renaissance  is  mingled  with 

212 


THE  SPHINX  OF  FRENCH  HISTORY 

that  of  hundreds  of  thousands  —  Latins,  Teutons,  Slavs, 
and  Magyars  —  since  fallen  in  this,  the  cloth-and-bullet 
age  of  our  development  from  the  days  of  Pavia  to  those 
of  Solferino  and  Custozza. 

Truly,  this  "  Mayland "  of  the  Gothic  invaders  — 
whence,  as  some  hold,  is  derived  the  name  of  Milan  —  is 
one  of  the  most  fertile  of  all  soils  for  those  endowed 
with  the  gift  of  what  Sir  Thomas  Browne  so  quaintly 
styled,  "  the  art  of  reminiscential  evocation."  Its  his- 
tory has  been  made  familiar  to  us,  moreover,  by  many 
writers  and  painters  and  sculptors,  all  along  the  road  of 
the  centuries;  and  yet,  for  me,  at  least,  the  very  essence 
of  its  fascination  lies  in  some  of  the  less  known  recesses 
of  its  treasure-house  of  human  vicissitudes  and  human 
good  and  evil.  Its  towns  and  castles,  its  villas  and 
churches,  have  their  tales  of  glory  or  of  terror,  of  sorrow 
or  triumph  to  tell;  and  the  story  of  them  is  the  story  of 
a  people,  and  of  a  society,  that  have  preserved  their  char- 
acteristics intact  throughout  more  changes  of  government 
and  of  ideas  than  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  others 
in  all  the  world,  with  the  possible  exception  of  the  in- 
habitants of  the  kingdom  of  Naples. 


There  are  in  this  world  of  ours  certain  spots  that, 
on  first  beholding  them,  cause  our  hearts  to  thrill  and 
glow  with  an  extraordinary  gladness,  by  reason  of  their 
perfect  beauty  and  the  exquisite  harmony  of  them  with 
their  surroundings;  until,  suddenly,  we  learn  the  name 
of  the  place  —  and  then  it  seems  to  us  as  though  the  loveli- 
ness at  which  we  have  been  gazing  changes  under  our  very 
eyes,  and,  as  we  draw  closer  to  it,  becomes  swiftly  hideous 

213 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

with  all  the  loathsomeness  of  some  dead  thing  first  seen 
from  afar. 

Such  a  one  was  once,  for  Victor  Hugo,  on  viewing  it 
of  a  summer's  evening  from  the  window  of  a  railway 
train,  the  town  of  Sedan,  and  just  such  another,  for  the 
wanderer  who  comes  into  sight  of  it  for  the  first  time, 
is  to  be  found  in  a  little  old  bourg  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains  in  western  Lombardy,  nestling  among  poplars 
and  gardens,  and  crowned  by  the  spire  of  an  ancient 
church  that  rises  from  near  the  remains  of  a  contem- 
porary castle,  once  the  citadel  of  the  place. 

The  name  of  the  town  is  Pinerolo. 

The  name  of  Pinerolo,  though  not  so  widely  known 
as  that  of  Sedan,  is  yet  linked  for  ever  with  one  of  the 
most  tragically  famous  of  all  personalities  —  that  of  the 
"  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask,"  Hercules  Anthony  Mattioli, 
as  he  has  now  at  last  been  proved  irrefutably  to  have 
been  by  Monsieur  Funck-Brentano  in  that  gentleman's 
luminous  "  Legends  and  Archives  of  the  Bastille,"  in 
which  at  one  blow  the  writer  destroys  the  pretensions  of 
the  several  other  candidates  for  that  mournful  honour. 

Very  few  riddles,  I  should  think,  if  any  at  all,  have 
so  constantly  occupied  the  minds  of  those  interested  in 
historical  curiosities  during  the  last  hundred  and  fifty 
years  as  has  done  that  of  the  mysterious  prisoner  of  Louis 
XIV;  rarely,  if  ever,  has  any  question  been  so  hotly  dis- 
puted by  one  generation  and  another  of  antiquarian 
scholars.  But  perhaps  the  most  fascinating  work  on  the 
subject  is  an  English  one,  that  of  Mr.  Tighe  Hopkins,* 
which  I  would  cordially  recommend  to  all  lovers  of  his- 
torical writings. 

*  Tighe  Hopkins:  "The  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask."     Hurst  &  Blackett, 
Publishers,  London,  1901. 

2I4 


THE  SPHINX  OF  FRENCH  HISTORY 

The  whole  episode  of  the  "  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  " 
furnishes  as  consummate  an  instance  as  any  on  record  of 
the  atrocious  vengeance  of  one  human  being  upon  an- 
other; if  ever  Louis  XIV  was  unworthy  of  his  title  of 
"  the  most  Christian  King  "  it  was  in  his  unmerciful  cru- 
elty towards  the  man  who  had  inflicted  upon  him  the  most 
crushing  diplomatic  defeat  of  his  whole  reign,  that  same 
Count  Mattioli.  It  was  for  making  him  ridiculous  in 
the  eyes  of  all  who  had  any  knowledge  of  the  affair,  by 
destroying  his  pet  political  scheme  in  regard  to  Italy, 
that  King  Louis  condemned  Mattioli  to  life-long  impris- 
onment and  to  total  separation  from  all  that  could  make 
his  existence  endurable  —  the  man's  religion  alone  ex- 
cepted.  So  that,  for  twenty-four  years,  from  May  2, 
1679,  to  the  hour  of  his  death,  which  took  place  about 
ten  o'clock  in  the  night  of  November  19,  1703,  the  un- 
happy Italian  endured  the  living  death  of  a  man  deprived 
of  all  knowledge  of  those  he  had  loved  and  left  behind  him, 
and  who  on  their  side  had  long  assumed  him  to  be  dead 
in  very  fact.  Neither  his  wife  nor  his  father  ever  learned 
what  became  of  Mattioli  after  his  disappearance  on  that 
fatal  2d  of  May. 

The  beginnings  of  Mattioli's  tragedy  were  simple 
enough.  They  had  their  foundation,  on  the  one  hand, 
in  the  overweening  ambition  of  Louis  XIV  in  regard  to 
Italy,  where  France  had  possessed  Pinerolo  since  Car- 
dinal Richelieu's  time;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  ex- 
travagance and  debauchery  —  and  the  consequent  need 
of  money  —  of  one  of  the  most  contemptible  men  who 
ever  lived:  Charles  of  Gonzaga,  fourth  Duke  of  Mantua 
and  the  owner  of  the  Marquisate  of  Montferrat,  with 
its  strong  place  of  Casale,  that  lay  on  the  Po,  between 
forty  and  fifty  miles  east  of  Turin.  Thus,  if  Casale  could 

215 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

only  be  brought  within  his  power,  the  French  King  would 
be  in  a  position  to  prevent  any  further  advance  of  the 
Piedmontese  into  Italy  by  his  own  domination  in  Lom- 
bardy.  It  was  his  minister  of  war,  the  brilliant,  if  un- 
scrupulous and  personally  immoral  Louvois,  who  sug- 
gested to  Louis  in  1676  the  idea  of  possessing  himself  of 
Casale,  and  so  of  making  France  the  arbiter  of  Italian 
development. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  to  the  taste  of  the  mon- 
arch whose  appetite  for  Italy  at  that  time  was  being 
whetted  by  his  naval  triumph  over  his  Dutch  and  Span- 
ish adversaries  off  Sicily,  by  which  he  enjoyed  for  a  space 
the  sovereignty  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  only  possible 
difficulty  in  the  matter  was  that  of  inducing  the  owner 
of  Casale,  the  Duke  of  Mantua,  to  make  over  the  control 
of  it  to  King  Louis  —  a  difficulty  of  which  the  astute 
Louvois  undertook  to  dispose,  without  fail,  by  means  of 
pressure  in  the  right  place.  Thus  reassured,  his  sover- 
eign left  the  management  of  the  affair  entirely  in  the 
hands  of  Louvois. 

Louvois  did  not  keep  the  King  waiting  long  for  further 
and  most  welcome  news  upon  the  subject  of  Casale  and 
the  Duke  of  Mantua.  He  had  placed  the  matter,  he 
reported,  with  the  French  representative  in  Venice,  the 
Abbe  D'Estrades,  for  investigation;  and  D'Estrades, 
an  ambitious,  intriguing  man,  only  too  anxious  for  an 
opportunity  of  distinguishing  himself  in  the  eyes  of  his 
master,  had  replied  that  he  felt  perfect  confidence  in  his 
own  ability  to  bring  about  the  desired  result.  He  was 
thoroughly  informed,  he  said,  of  the  Duke  of  Mantua's 
affairs;  and,  so  far  as  these  were  concerned,  the  success 
of  the  enterprise  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  Duke  of  Mantua  was,  as  Mr. 

216 


THE  SPHINX  OF  FRENCH  HISTORY 

Tighe  Hopkins  puts  it,  "  up  for  sale  " ;  his  revenues,  as 
D'Estrades  reported  to  Louvois,  were  spent  in  advance, 
and  he  was  helplessly  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews;  there 
was  nothing  he  owned  that  he  would  not  be  willing  to 
sell  for  money  to  spend  on  his  pleasures  in  Venice,  where 
he  lived  almost  habitually  and  whence  he  never  returned 
to  Mantua  except  upon  expeditions  of  rack-rent.  He  was 
also  much  under  the  influence  of  his  favourites,  to  whom 
he  was  accustomed  to  leave  the  governing  of  Mantua 
and  the  administration  of  his  affairs;  all  he  asked  for 
himself  was  that  they  should  leave  him  to  his  boon  com- 
panions in  Venice,  "  his  gamesters,  his  women,  and  his 
wine-parties."  And  it  was  D'Estrades'  opinion  that  he 
might  best  be  approached  in  the  matter  of  Casale  through 
one  of  his  favourites. 

The  responsibility  for  Duke  Charles'  way  of  life  may 
not  have  lain  entirely  with  the  young  man  himself,  then 
in  the  springtime  of  life;  for  it  would  seem  that  some  of 
the  blame  should  fall  upon  his  widowed  mother,  Arch- 
duchess Isabella  Clara  of  Austria,  the  head  of  his  council 
and  virtual  ruler  of  his  small  domain;  and  Isabella  Clara 
was  as  notoriously  opposed  to  the  interests  of  the  King 
of  France  as  she  was  favourable  to  those  of  the  King  of 
Spain,  his  sworn  opponent  in  Italy.  And  it  may  even  be 
that,  in  order  to  keep  the  destinies  of  Mantua  in  her 
own  control,  she  rather  encouraged  than  otherwise  her 
son's  absence  from  his  territories  in  order  the  more  easily 
to  administer  them  in  union  with  the  Spanish  policy  — 
Spain  being  then  allied  with  Austria  against  the  encroach- 
ments of  their  rapacious  Gallic  neighbour. 

Duke  Charles,  himself,  according  to  D'Estrades  in 
writing  to  Louis  XIV  from  Venice,  was  endowed  with 
"  more  talent  and  ambition  than  he  is  thought  to  have," 

217 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

was  eager  to  recover  for  himself  the  authority  he  had  let 
fall  into  his  mother's  hands;  and,  supremely,  was  imbued 
with  profound  suspicion  of  the  Spaniards,  who,  as  he  be- 
lieved, had  every  intention  of  making  themselves  masters 
of  Montferrat  and  the  fortress  of  Casale.  Moreover, 
wrote  D'Estrades,  he  was  convinced  that  the  duke  would 
be  willing  to  accept  King  Louis  "  to  some  extent  "  as  his 
protector. 

In  this  same  letter  there  first  occurs  the  name  of  Mat- 
tioli,  whom,  as  D'Estrades  informs  the  King,  he  has 
approached  through  a  mutual  acquaintance,  a  certain 
Giuliani,  with  the  object  of  enlisting  Mattioli's  services 
on  the  French  side. 

For  Mattioli  had  the  ear  of  Duke  Charles  as  being 
the  one  of  the  favourites  most  especially  admitted  to 
his  intimacy.  Mattioli  was  about  thirty-six  years  old, 
a  member  of  the  Mantuan  senate  and  an  ex-secretary  of 
state;  a  successful  lawyer,  and,  it  would  appear,  a  boon 
companion  of  the  duke's.  No  one  fitter  then,  considered 
D'Estrades,  than  Mattioli  to  be  entrusted,  if  possible, 
with  the  task  of  persuading  his  master  to  let  the  French 
take  care  of  Casale  for  him  against  the  Austrians  and 
Spaniards,  who  designed  to  rob  him  of  it.  But  Mattioli 
himself  must  first  be  sounded,  in  order  that  D'Estrades 
might  be  as  sure  of  his  sentiments  towards  France  as  he 
was  of  his  influence  over  Duke  Charles;  hence  Giuliani's 
mission  to  Verona,  where  Mattioli  was  staying,  in  Octo- 
ber, 1677. 

Now  from  this  same  despatch  of  D'Estrades'  to  Louis 
XIV  it  is  evident  that  he  knew  Mattioli  to  have  been 
already  engaged  in  negotiations  with  the  Spaniards  in 
Milan  —  which  was  still,  for  some  years,  to  remain  their 
capital  in  Upper  Italy  —  and  to  have  been  disappointed 

218 


THE  SPHINX  OF  FRENCH  HISTORY 

by  them  in  regard  to  certain  hopes  they  had  led  him  to 
entertain. 

What  those  hopes  were  I  do  not  know,  because 
D'Estrades'  despatch  does  not  go  into  the  details  of  them; 
but  one  can  only  suppose  they  must  have  had  to  do  in 
some  way  with  Mattioli's  personal  advancement  or  profit 
—  which  consideration  seems  to  have  weighed,  at  first, 
more  with  him  than  did  that  of  patriotism.  And,  if  in- 
deed Mattioli's  later  conduct  can  be  held  to  have  been 
inspired  by  a  desire  to  benefit  his  country,  that  conduct 
is  at  all  events  open  by  its  deceitful  tortuousness  to  the 
worst  possible  of  interpretations. 

And  so  D'Estrades's  agent,  Giuliani,  came  to  seek  out 
Mattioli  at  Verona,  under  pretence  of  private  business, 
but  in  reality  that  he  might  win  him  over  to  the  side 
of  King  Louis  and  so  obtain  his  cooperation  in  bringing 
Duke  Charles  to  the  same  view  of  his  own  interests.  To 
this  end  Giuliani  represented  to  Mattioli  "  that  the 
friends  of  the  duke  desired  greatly  to  see  him  in  a  position 
of  independence;  that  all  his  territories  and  all  his  rev- 
enues were  under  the  absolute  control  of  his  mother  and 
the  monk,  Bulgarini,  her  confessor,  and  that  Casale  and 
the  Montferrat  were  threatened  by  all  manner  of  Span- 
ish and  other  intrigues."  * 

To  this  Mattioli  answered  glibly  "  that  he  had  long 
seen  the  truth  "  of  what  Giuliani  had  laid  before  him, 
but  "  there  was  still  a  remedy  for  so  great  an  evil  " ;  add- 
ing that  he  would  speak  with  the  duke  on  the  subject  and 
"  discover  his  real  sentiments." 

Once  thus  launched,  the  intrigue  went  merrily  forward. 
The  duke  was  sounded  in  his  turn  by  Mattioli,  and  an- 
swer was  made  through  the  latter  to  Giuliani  and  through 

*  Hopkins,  p.  196  et  seq, 
219 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

D'Estrades  to  Louis  XIV  that:  "The  duke  approved 
very  much  of  the  proposition  that  was  made  him,  to  free 
him  from  the  perpetual  uneasiness  he  felt  on  the  score 
of  the  Spaniards,  and  that,  for  this  purpose,  Casale  should 
be  placed  in  your  Majesty's  hands,  upon  the  understand- 
ing that  I  should  try  to  obtain  from  you  in  his  favour  all 
that  he  could  reasonably  ask  for." 

Charles  of  Mantua's  requirements  were  as  follows: 
One  hundred  thousand  pistoles  —  some  forty  thousand 
pounds  of  English  money  —  in  cash,  and  that  Louis 
should  send  into  Italy  a  sufficiently  strong  army  "  to 
be  able  to  undertake  something  considerable  ";  also,  that 
he,  the  Duke  of  Mantua,  should  have  the  command  of 
this  army  "  in  order  to  be  considered  in  Italy  like  the 
late  Duke  of  Modena,  and  the  late  Duke  of  Mantua,  who 
at  his  age  commanded  in  chief  the  Emperor's  army,  with 
the  title  of  Vicar-General  of  the  Empire." 

With  this  despatch  of  D'Estrades'  was  enclosed  a  let- 
ter from  Mattioli  to  Louis  XIV,  in  which  he  wrote :  "  I 
bless  the  destiny  which  procures  me  the  honour  of  serv- 
ing so  great  a  monarch,  whom  I  regard  and  revere  as  a 
demigod."  To  which  the  King  replied  that  he  thanked 
the  writer,  and  was  greatly  obliged  to  him  and  would 
have  much  pleasure  in  giving  him  proofs  of  his  satisfac- 
tion upon  every  occasion.  But  King  Louis  did  not  vouch- 
safe any  answer  in  the  matter  of  terms  until  the  reception 
of  a  further  and  pressing  letter  from  D'Estrades,  to 
the  effect  that  the  Austrians  and  Spaniards  were  making 
ready  to  size  Casale  and  all  the  Montferrat;  and  that 
Mantua  even  was  to  be  occupied  by  them.  This,  wrote 
D'Estrades,  he  had  learned  by  letter  from  the  Duke  of 
Mantua  himself,  who,  as  D'Estrades  explained,  was  so 
closely  watched  by  Isabella  Clara  and  Father  Bulgarini 

220 


THE  SPHINX  OF  FRENCH  HISTORY 

as  to  make  it  impossible  for  him  either  to  declare  himself 
openly  for  France  or  to  deliver  Casale  to  the  French 
unless  King  Louis  would  send  into  Italy  an  army  strong 
enough  to  hold  that  fortress. 

At  last,  however,  after  much  haggling  over  the  sum  to 
be  paid  to  the  duke  as  the  price  of  Casale  (he  was  finally 
beaten  down  to  take  about  twelve  thousand  pounds,  by 
instalments),  everything  was  agreed  to;  all  that  remained 
to  do  was  to  put  the  agreement  into  writing  and  to 
sign  it. 

But  here  the  first  real  difficulty  entered  into  the  matter; 
for,  as  D'Estrades  well  knew,  it  would  be  utterly  im- 
possible, during  many  months  to  come,  for  Louis  XIV 
to  send  into  Italy  the  soldiers  upon  whom  the  duke  was 
relying,  to  enable  him  to  hold  the  fortress  of  Casale  for 
King  Louis  against  his  mother  and  her  friends,  the  Aus- 
trians  and  Spaniards;  because  all  the  King's  troops  were 
too  badly  needed  elsewhere. 

The  Duke  of  Mantua,  however,  who  was  impatient  to 
finish  the  business,  insisted  upon  sending  the  faithful 
Mattioli  to  Paris  at  this  juncture,  to  negotiate  with  the 
King  in  person  so  as  to  save  further  delay;  to  this 
D'Estrades  consented,  but  at  the  same  time  he  cast  about 
him  for  a  means  of  retarding  Mattioli's  departure,  lest 
the  latter  might  have  none  but  disappointing  news  to 
bring  back  with  him  from  Paris  to  Mantua  —  and  so  the 
duke,  impetuous  and  unstable,  might  be  caught  on  his 
rebound  in  the  hands  of  Spain  and  Austria. 

Luckily  for  D'Estrades,  one  delay  now  succeeded  to 
another;  the  necessity  under  which  Mattioli  felt  himself 
of  protecting  his  master  against  the  Spanish  blandish- 
ments kept  him  in  close  attendance  on  the  duke  for 

221 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

months;  then  there  followed  an  illness  of  the  duchess- 
mother,  Isabella  Clara,  of  whose  probable  demise 
D'Estrades  wrote  home  with  the  most  beautiful  expres- 
sions of  resignation  to  the  Divine  Will:  "  If  God  should 
call  her  to  Himself,  the  affair  would  be  more  easy  to 
conclude."  But  it  was  fated  otherwise;  the  honest,  pa- 
triotic Austrian  woman  got  well  again.  Next,  it  was  Mat- 
tioli's  own  turn  to  fall  ill;  and  so,  from  one  cause  and 
another,  it  resulted  that  he  did  not  reach  Paris  until  the 
end  of  November,  1678,  when  in  a  private  audience  with 
Louis  XIV  the  matter  was  concluded  —  twelve  thousand 
pounds  were  to  be  paid  to  the  Duke  of  Mantua,  to  admit 
the  French  into  Casale,  and  he  was  then  to  be  appointed 
their  commander-in-chief.  Mattioli  himself  was  given  a 
ring  and  a  sum  of  money  by  way  of  "  pourboire,"  to- 
gether with  promises  of  the  royal  patronage  for  his 
son  and  of  preferment  in  the  Church  for  his  brother,  who 
was  a  priest.  French  troops  under  Boufflers  were  mob- 
ilised at  Briangon  on  the  frontier  of  France  and  Pied- 
mont, and  the  great  Catinat,  at  that  time  a  simple  briga- 
dier, was  despatched  in  all  secrecy  to  Pinerolo,  to  await 
their  coming. 

Simultaneously,  Colonel  Baron  D'Asfeld  was  sent  to 
Venice,  where  the  Duke  of  Mantua  was  spending  the  win- 
ter, there  to  exchange  the  ratification  of  the  treaty;  he 
arrived  in  the  January  of  1679,  and  at  once  informed 
Pinchesne,  the  French  representative,  of  his  mission.  But 
the  duke  refused  to  ratify  the  treaty  until  Mattioli,  who 
was  still  on  the  way  from  Paris,  should  have  arrived  to 
give  him  the  benefit  of  his  opinion  concerning  it;  and  here, 
be  it  noticed,  is  the  first  sign  of  Mattioli's  double-dealing 
as  shown  in  the  extraordinary  slowness  of  his  journey 
home  from  Paris. 

222 


THE  SPHINX  OF  FRENCH  HISTORY 

What  was  the  reason  of  that  slowness?  —  but  let  us 
wait  and  see. 

The  parts  were  now  reversed;  whereas,  the  French 
had  been  formerly  anxious  for  delays,  they  were  now  all 
afire  with  eagerness  to  put  the  business  through;  whilst 
the  Duke  of  Mantua  and  his  Mattioli,  once  so  impatient 
of  any  hitch  in  the  negotiations,  now  seemed  scarcely 
interested  any  longer  in  the  question  of  Casale.  Pressed 
by  D'Asfeld  and  Pinchesne  to  promise  that  he  would  be 
at  that  place  by  the  2Oth  of  February  at  latest,  the 
duke  declined  to  commit  himself;  and  when  he  answered 
them  at  last  through  Mattioli  (who,  on  his  arrival  in 
Italy,  was  once  more  prevented  for  a  time  from  attending 
to  business  by  another  of  his  inopportune  attacks  of  ill- 
ness) Duke  Charles  sent  word  to  say  that  he  could  not 
possibly  get  to  Casale  before  the  loth  of  March,  urging 
three  separate  reasons  for  his  inability  to  do  so.  These 
were:  That  he  had  not  sufficient  funds  for  such  a  jour- 
ney; that  he  was  unwilling  to  leave  his  heir-presumptive, 
Don  Vincenzo  Gonzaga,  behind  at  Mantua  at  such  a 
crisis;  and  "the  obligation  he  found  himself  under  of 
holding  a  sort  of  carousal  with  several  Venetian  gentle- 
men." Could  anything  be  more  frankly  careless  than 
this  last;  more  plainly  indicative  of  the  fact  that  Duke 
Charles,  disappointed  by  the  smallness  of  the  monetary 
advantage  proffered  him  in  return  for  the  control  of 
Casale,  was  either  desirous  of  obtaining  more  by  giving 
an  impression  of  indifference  in  the  matter,  or  else,  that 
he  was  genuinely  indifferent,  by  reason  of  the  knowledge 
that  Mattioli  was  even  at  that  moment  (and  by  precon- 
certed arrangement  with  himself)  displaying  the  political 
wares  so  undervalued  by  Louis  XIV  to  other  and  more 

223 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

generous    purchasers    along    the    road    from    Paris    to 
Venice? 

And  yet  the  French  agents,  at  this  stage  of  things,  still 
reported  their  unshaken  belief  that  the  duke  had  every 
intention  of  remaining  true  to  their  master  in  Paris  I 

Meanwhile,  the  massing  of  the  French  troops  over 
against  the  Piedmontese  frontier  was  causing  consterna- 
tion throughout  Northern  Italy.  Duke  Charles  even  re- 
ceived "  representations  "  from  the  Spanish  and  Austrian 
ministers  at  Mantua,  protesting  violently  against  the  news 
they  had  heard  from  Turin  — "  that  he  wished  to  give 
Casale  and  the  Montferrat  to  the  King  of  France." 
To  which  the  ingenuous  Charles  returned  a  flat  denial, 
expressing  some  mild  wonder  at  their  excellencies'  credu- 
lousness!  All  was  now  suspicion  and  anger,  and  veiled 
threats  for  Duke  Charles  from  both  sides;  couriers  were 
being  sent  off  at  top-speed  to  Vienna  and  Madrid,  and 
even  to  Venice,  with  the  news  of  Charles'  projected 
"  deal  "  with  the  French ;  whilst  Pinchesne  and  D'Asf eld 
pressed  him,  without  mercy  or  intermission,  to  betake 
himself  to  Casale,  there  to  wait  for  the  French  troops 
and  to  hand  over  the  keys  of  the  place  to  them  on  their 
arrival.  At  last  he  agreed  to  do  this;  at  the  same  time, 
D'Asfeld  and  Mattioli  were  to  meet  at  Increa,  not  far 
from  Casale,  and  to  exchange  the  ratifications  of  the 
treaty  —  this,  I  fancy,  by  the  duke's  stipulation,  seeing 
that  both  Mattioli  and  D'Asfeld  were  in  Venice  with  the 
treaty  in  their  pockets.  This  eccentric  provision  seems 
to  prove  all  the  more  clearly,  in  the  light  of  subsequent 
events,  that  Duke  Charles  was  perfectly  aware  of  those 
events,  and  that  he  had  no  intention  whatever  of  binding 
himself  to  Louis  XIV  by  any  signed  instrument  that  might 
afterwards  be  held  against  him  by  that  person. 

224 


THE  SPHINX  OF  FRENCH  HISTORY 

The  duke  then  was  to  be  at  Casale  by  the  I5th  of 
March;  and  Mattioli  was  to  meet  D'Asfeld  at  Increa  on 
the  9th  of  the  same  month. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  it  was  learned  that  D'Asfeld, 
marching  to  keep  his  appointment  with  Mattioli,  had 
been  arrested  by  the  Spanish  Government  in  the  Duchy 
of  Milan,  which  he  was  obliged  to  cross  to  reach  the 
rendezvous  at  Increa;  on  the  other  hand,  neither  Duke 
Charles  nor  Mattioli  had  as  yet  left  Mantua  for  Casale 
or  for  Increa  —  although  the  latter  was  the  first  to  send 
the  news  of  D'Asfeld's  arrest  to  the  French  agents, 
D'Estrades  at  Turin  and  Pinchesne  at  Venice.  It  was 
now  the  end  of  the  month  of  March,  and  those  same 
French  agents  were  beginning  to  entertain  the  strongest 
suspicions  of  Mattioli  himself. 

April  passed  away  and  still  the  business  remained  sta- 
tionary, while  those  suspicions  increased  to  a  straining- 
point —  and  then  on  May  Day,  1679,  the  storm  broke. 

The  whole  of  the  proposed  cession  of  Casale  was 
made  known,  simultaneously  at  Turin,  Madrid,  Vienna, 
Milan,  and  Venice;  at  one  and  the  same  time,  the  repre- 
sentative of  each  state  announced  his  perfect  knowledge 
of  the  entire  transaction  to  Monsieur  de  Pomponne,  the 
French  minister  for  foreign  affairs  1 


225 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TRUTH  OF  THE  IRON  MASK 

Mattioli's  Betrayal  of  Louis  XIV — Participation  of  Duke  Charles — 
Louis'  True  Character  Exhibited  to  World — Abduction  of  Mattioli — 
Imprisoned  for  Fifteen  Years — Insanity — Story  of  the  Mask — Mat- 
tioli's Disappearance  No  Mystery — Explanation  of  the  Riddle — Mat- 
tioli's Hardships — His  End. 

A'sTD  so  the  truth  came  to  light. 
The  Duchess-Regent  of  Savoy  wrote,  herself,  to 
Louis  XIV,  to  tell  him  that  Mattioli  had  shown  her  the 
documents  relating  to  the  negotiations  for  Casale,  and 
that  she  had  in  her  possession  copies  of  them.  Her  min- 
ister, Signor  Trucci,  had  had  an  interview  with  Mattioli 
on  the  subject  at  Turin.  It  afterwards  transpired,  through 
Mattioli's  own  admission  to  Catinat,  that  he  had  be- 
trayed the  whole  affair  to  the  Conde  de  Melgar,  the 
Spanish  Governor  of  Milan,  and  that  Melgar  had  pro- 
vided him  with  a  cipher  for  their  communications  on  the 
subject;  and  that  he,  Mattioli,  had  had  secret  interviews 
in  regard  to  it  with  one  of  the  Inquisitors  of  State  at 
Venice. 

Personally,  I  find  it  hard  to  believe  with  Mr.  Hopkins 
that  Mattioli  acted  throughout  without  the  knowledge 
and  consent  of  the  Duke  of  Mantua.  In  the  first  place, 
he  had  no  certainty  of  any  commensurate  gain  to  be  de- 
rived from  his  betrayal  of  Louis  XIV  to  that  monarch's 
adversaries  —  for  responsible  ministers  of  state  do  not 
generally  pay  largely  for  information  before  that  infor- 
mation has  been  shown  to  be  not  merely  negatively,  but 

226 


TRUTH  OF  THE  IRON  MASK 

positively  valuable.  And  Mattioli  would  naturally  have 
required  a  very  large  sum  in  each  instance  to  compensate 
him  for  the  inevitable  loss  of  Duke  Charles'  favour  when 
Duke  Charles  (always  supposing  the  two  men  to  have 
been  working  at  cross  purposes,  and  that  the  duke  was 
in  ignorance  of  Mattioli's  subterranean  intrigues)  should 
discover  that  Mattioli  had  disloyally  wrecked  his  pet 
project  of  military  glory,  and  had  kept  him  as  well  out 
of  the  enjoyment  of  twelve  thousand  pounds  or  so. 

Again,  consider  the  duke's  own  behaviour  throughout 
—  his  first  keenness  and  then  his  amazing  apathy  just  at 
the  moment  when  his  cherished  desire  and  a  large  sum 
of  money  to  boot  were  within  his  reach  —  the  "  sort  of 
carousal  "  put  forward  by  him  as  an  excuse  for  not  going 
to  Casale  to  meet  the  troops  of  which  he  was  to  have 
been  the  generalissimo  —  was  such  the  conduct  of  any  but 
a  man  anxious  to  evade  the  fulfilment  of  his  bargain? 

The  fury  of  Louis  XIV  at  being  thus  exhibited  to  the 
world  in  his  true  character  of  intriguer  and  brigand  — 
and  a  feeble  one  at  that  —  together  with  the  explanations 
and  personal  untruths  in  which  he  now  found  himself 
involved  (neither  explanations  nor  personal  untruths  be- 
ing at  all  to  his  proud  taste)  may  be  more  easily  imag- 
ined than  described.  Also  his  wrath  with  D'Estrades  and 
Pinchesne  for  letting  themselves  be  made  fools  of  by 
Mattioli.  The  former  of  these,  however,  instantly  took 
steps  to  assuage  his  master's  anger  by  submitting  a  plan 
of  revenge;  he  proposed  that  Mattioli  should  be  kid- 
napped and  imprisoned  for  so  long  or  so  short  a  time 
as  the  King  might  please. 

To  this  Louis  consented,  insisting  only  that  the  thing 
should  be  done  with  the  utmost  secrecy;  Mattioli  was  to 
be  lured  on  to  French  soil  beyond  the  frontier  of  Pied- 

227 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

mont  and  incarcerated  in  a  dungeon  at  Pinerolo.  Except 
his  gaoler  there  —  one  Saint-Mars,  baptised  Benignant 
—  and  Catinat,  no  one  was  to  know  the  prisoner's  name. 
As  the  offended  Louis  put  it  to  D'Estrades,  "  Look  to 
it  that  no  one  knows  what  becomes  of  this  man."  So 
that  it  was  now,  as  Americans  say,  "  up  to  "  D'Estrades 
to  carry  out  the  abduction  of  Mattioli. 

Oddly  enough,  Mattioli  had  not  the  least  inkling  of 
his  peril;  he  had  no  idea  that  the  Duchess  of  Savoy  had 
made  known  his  transaction  with  her  to  Louis  XIV, 
and  so  he  was  all  unsuspecting  of  the  advances  with  which 
D'Estrades  continued  to  ply  him.  Indeed,  he  was  now 
in  Turin,  trying  to  get  more  money  out  of  the  French 
representatives,  on  the  ground  of  the  expenses  incurred 
by  him  in  promoting  King  Louis'  interests  in  Italy.  To 
that,  on  D'Estrades'  telling  him  that  Catinat  was  at 
Pinerolo  with  funds  for  the  express  purpose  of  reimburs- 
ing him,  Mattioli  agreed  to  meet  D'Estrades  early  in 
the  morning  of  May  2,  1679,  at  a  spot  outside  the  city, 
whence  they  were  to  drive  together  to  a  place  on  the  fron- 
tier near  Pinerolo. 


Mattioli  kept  the  appointment;  D'Estrades  was  wait- 
ing for  him  at  the  place  set,  and  away  the  carriage  rolled 
with  its  burden  of  revenge,  and  treachery,  and  greed, 
along  the  country  roads  to  where,  at  the  end  of  some 
seventeen  miles,  Catinat  was  waiting  for  them. 

And  so  the  meeting  took  place  and,  all  unwittingly, 
Mattioli  stepped  in  between  the  very  teeth  of  the  trap 
set  for  him  by  D'Estrades;  and  at  once  the  teeth  snapped 
to,  never  again  to  open  for  the  unhappy  man.  At  two 

228 


TRUTH  OF  THE  IRON  MASK 

o'clock  that  same  afternoon,  in  Mr.  Hopkins'  words, 
"  Saint-Mars  had  him  under  lock  in  the  dungeon  of 
Pignerol  —  the  French  name  for  Pinerolo.  There,  for 
fifteen  years,  Mattioli  was  confined  under  circumstances 
of  every  severity;  his  name  was  changed,  officially,  to 
Lestang,  in  order  that  none  might  know  his  identity  sav- 
ing only  that  same  Benignant  Saint-Mars  —  as  timorous 
and  heartless  a  creature  as  ever  passed  for  a  man. 

In  less  than  a  year  Mattioli  went  out  of  his  mind, 
thanks  to  Saint-Mars'  treatment  of  him;  at  that  time 
three  of  the  prisoners  under  the  amiable  Benignant's 
charge  in  the  hell  of  Pinerolo  were  insane  —  Mattioli, 
Dubreuil,  and  a  nameless  Jacobin  monk.  After  a  while 
Mattioli  and  the  Jacobin  were  put  in  the  same  cell  — 
and  there  they  lived  and  had  their  miserable  being  to- 
gether until  1694,  when,  in  consequence  of  the  French 
reverses,  preparations  were  set  on  foot  to  abandon 
Pinerolo  to  the  Savoyards.  It  now  became  necessary  to 
remove  the  only  three  prisoners  left  there  to  safer  keep- 
ing in  France  itself,  in  order  that  the  King's  secret  might 
be  kept  —  the  secret  of  his  having  "spirited  away," 
by  means  of  his  agents,  the  Minister  of  a  friendly 
Prince. 

And  so  Mattioli  was  taken  off,  along  with  Dubreuil 
and  another  —  the  monk  was  dead  —  in  a  closed  litter 
to  another  fortress,  that  of  Sainte-Marguerite,  on  an 
island  off  the  coast  of  Nice;  his  former  gaoler,  Saint- 
Mars,  had,  for  some  years  already,  been  the  governor 
of  Sainte-Marguerite,  and  to  him  Mattioli  was  brought 
under  a  strong  escort  of  soldiers  by  the  then  governor 
of  Pinerolo,  the  Marquis  D'Herleville,  in  person. 

It  is  to  be  presumed  that  on  this  journey  between  the 
two  prisons  Mattioli  was  masked,  as  he  was  similarly 

229 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

masked  some  years  later,  on  his  transference,  under 
charge  of  Saint-Mars,  from  Sainte-Marguerite  to  Paris 
and  to  the  Bastile  itself;  the  mask,  though,  was  not  the 
traditional  monstrosity  of  iron,  but  the  ordinary  velvet 
"  vizard  "  worn  to  this  day  at  masked  balls. 

And  this  brings  us  to  one  of  the  strangest  features  of 
the  whole  case  —  namely,  that  from  beginning  to  end 
this  secrecy  on  the  part  of  Louis  XIV  and  his  henchmen 
was  completely  unnecessary,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
the  secret  was  no  secret  at  all  and  never  had  been. 

This  is  abundantly  proved  by  the  fact  that,  as  early 
as  1682,  little  more  than  two  years  after  Mattioli's  ab- 
duction by  D'Estrades,  there  was  published  at  Cologne  a 
pamphlet  in  Italian  called  "  La  prudenza  trionfante  di 
Casale."  In  this  a  complete,  detailed  account  was  given 
of  the  whole  affair  of  the  intrigue  for  Casale,  with  the 
full  parts  played  in  it  by  D'Estrades,  Mattioli,  the  Duke 
of  Mantua,  Catinat,  D'Asfeld,  and  Pinchesne;  and  in 
1687  there  was  published  at  Leyden  the  "  Histoire 
abregee  de  1'Europe,"  containing  a  letter  translated  from 
Italian  into  French,  denouncing  the  abduction  of  Mattioli 
as  the  outrage  that  it  was. 

How  the  thing  came  thus  to  light  and  through  whom, 
I  have  no  means  of  ascertaining,  and  so  I  must  leave  it 
to  the  reader  to  decide  the  question  for  himself.  But,  as 
the  "  Prudenza  trionfante  "  contains  a  minute  description 
of  Mattioli's  arrest,  in  the  words,  "  The  secretary  (Mat- 
tioli) was  surrounded  by  ten  or  twelve  horsemen,  who 
seized  him,  disguised  him,  masked  him,  and  conducted 
him  to  Pinerolo,"  we  can  only  conclude  either  that  it 
must  have  been  written  by  an  eyewitness,  or  else  from 
the  description  given  by  one  of  the  scene  in  question. 
Moreover,  there  were  alive,  until  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 

230 


TRUTH  OF  THE  IRON  MASK 

tury,  many  persons  of  the  parts  about  Pinerolo  who  con- 
tinued to  bear  witness  both  to  Mattioli's  arrest  as  well 
as  to  the  manner  of  it,  especially  in  regard  to  his  masking 
by  Catinat's  men. 

After  all,  what  explanation  more  natural  than  that 
(for  the  day  was  a  Sunday)  some  small  boys  or  other 
idlers  should  have  followed  the  march  of  Catinat  and  his 
few  soldiers,  at  a  respectful  distance,  along  the  three 
miles  of  road  from  Pinerolo  to  the  place  of  the  arrest 
and,  concealing  themselves  among  the  dense  trees  nearby, 
should  have  seen  everything? 

Thus,  the  mystery  of  Mattioli's  disappearance  from 
the  world  of  the  living  was  in  no  way  a  mystery,  except 
in  the  fond  imagination  of  his  gaolers,  seeing  that  the 
facts  of  it  were  public  property  over  a  great  part  of 
Europe,  after  the  appearance  of  the  publications  men- 
tioned in  1682  and  1687. 

There  arises  then  the  question  —  whence  the  mystery 
of  the  "  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  "? 

From  the  early  spring  of  1694  until  the  summer  of 
1698,  when  Saint-Mars  was  promoted  to  be  the  governor 
of  the  Bastile  in  Paris,  Mattioli  remained  under  his  care 
at  the  Island  of  Sainte-Marguerite.  At  the  end  of  those 
four  years  Saint-Mars  is  told  to  come  to  Paris  and  to 
bring  with  him  his  "  ancient  prisoner  "  in  such  a  manner 
that  he  shall  be  seen  by  no  one. 

And  so  Saint-Mars  set  out  for  his  new  post  in  the 
capital,  taking  with  him  his  "  ancient  prisoner,"  masked 
as  ever,  in  a  litter,  with  an  escort  of  horse-soldiers.  On 
their  way  they  passed  by  Saint-Mars'  estate  of  Palteau, 
near  Villeneuve  in  the  Department  of  the  Yonne,  where 
Saint-Mars  rested  for  a  day  or  two,  never  letting  his 
prisoner  out  of  his  sight;  together  they  ate  their  meals, 

231 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

and  at  night  Saint-Mars  slept  in  a  bed  close  to  that  of 
the  man  in  the  mask. 

In  a  letter  upon  the  subject  published  in  the  "  Annee 
Litteraire  "  for  June  30,  1768,  and  quoted  in  his  admira- 
ble book  by  Mr.  Tighe  Hopkins,  the  grand-nephew  of 
Saint-Mars,  M.  de  Formanoir  de  Palteau,  writes : 

"  In  1698,  M.  de  Saint-Mars  passed  from  the  charge 
of  the  Isles  of  Sainte-Marguerite  to  that  of  the  Bastile. 
On  his  way  he  stayed  with  his  prisoner  at  Palteau.  The 
Man  in  the  Mask  came  in  a  litter  which  preceded  that 
of  M.  de  Saint-Mars;  they  were  accompanied  by  several 
men  on  horseback.  The  peasants  went  to  greet  their 
lord;  M.  de  Saint-Mars  took  his  meals  with  his  prisoner, 
who  was  placed  with  his  back  to  the  windows  of  the 
dining-room,  which  overlooked  the  courtyard.  The 
peasants  whom  I  questioned  could  not  see  whether  he 
wore  his  mask  while  eating,  but  they  took  note  of  the  fact 
that  M.  de  Saint-Mars,  who  sat  opposite  to  him,  kept 
a  pair  of  pistols  beside  his  plate.  They  were  waited  on 
by  one  manservant,  who  fetched  the  dishes  from  the  ante- 
room, where  they  were  brought  to  him,  taking  care  to 
close  behind  him  the  door  of  the  dining-room.  When 
the  prisoner  crossed  the  courtyard,  he  always  wore  the 
black  mask;  the  peasants  noticed  that  his  teeth  and  lips 
showed  through  it;  also  that  he  was  tall  and  had  white 
hair." 

These  things  the  writer  had  from  the  few  remaining 
actual  witnesses  of  them,  seventy  years  before. 

On  the  arrival  of  Saint-Mars  at  the  Bastile  in  the  later 
days  of  September,  1698,  he  was  met  by  Du  Junca,  the 
King's  lieutenant  of  the  prison,  who  noted  the  fact  with 
all  its  circumstances  in  the  register  now  in  the  library  of 
the  Arsenal  in  Paris.  It  is  this  entry  of  Du  Junca's 
(according  to  M.  Funck-Brentano,  as  quoted  by  Mr. 

232 


TRUTH  OF  THE  IRON  MASK 

Hopkins)  that  is  "  the  origin  and  foundation  of  all  that 
has  been  printed  on  the  question  of  the  Iron  Mask." 
The  entry  goes  thus : 

"On  Thursday,  i8th  of  September,  at  three  in  the 
afternoon,  M.  de  Saint-Mars,  governor  of  the  chateau  of 
the  Bastile,  presented  himself  for  the  first  time,  coming 
from  the  government  of  the  Isles  of  Sainte-Marguerite  - 
Honorat,  having  with  him  in  his  litter  a  prisoner  who 
was  formerly  in  his  keeping  at  Pignerol  (Pinerolo), 
whom  he  caused  to  be  always  masked,  whose  name  is  not 
mentioned;  on  descending  from  the  litter,  he  had  him 
placed  in  the  first  chamber  of  the  Basiniere  tower,  wait- 
ing until  night  for  me  to  take  him  at  nine  o'clock,  and  put 
him  with  M.  de  Rosarges,  one  of  the  sergeants  brought 
by  the  Governor,  alone  in  the  third  chamber  of  the 
Bertandiere  tower,  which  I  had  had  furnished  some  days 
before  his  arrival  by  order  of  M.  de  Saint-Mars.  The 
said  prisoner  will  be  served  and  tended  by  M.  de  Rosarges, 
and  maintained  by  the  Governor." 

By  degrees,  though,  poor  Mattioli's  importance  began 
to  decrease  with  years  and  the  world's  forgetfulness  of 
the  events  that  had  so  stirred  France  and  Italy  all  those 
years  before  1679;  by  1701,  twenty-two  dreadful  years 
after  his  arrest  by  Catinat  at  Pinerolo,  he  had  fallen  from 
his  high  estate  of  mystery,  and  we  find  him  torn  out  of 
his  seclusion  from  the  common  herd  of  malefactors,  and 
put  to  share  a  cell  with  a  miserable  rascal  imprisoned 
for  various  offences  against  the  common  law  —  one  Tir- 
mont,  who  died  insane,  seven  years  later,  in  the  Bicetre. 
And  on  April  30,  1701,  there  was  added  to  these  two 
yet  a  third  prisoner,  Maranville  by  name;  the  three  re- 
mained together  thus  until  the  December  of  that  year, 
when  Tirmont  was  removed  to  Bicetre. 

233 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

The  two  remaining  years  of  Mattioli's  life  were  spent 
with  Maranville ;  one  can  only  hope  the  latter  was  able 
to  console  him  a  little  and  to  soften  his  last  moments  on 
earth  with  some  particle  of  companionship. 

And  now  comes  the  last  of  him;  as  noted  in  Du  Junca's 
handwriting  in  the  prison  register  on  November  19,  1703 : 

"The  same  day,  Monday,  I9th  of  November,  1703, 
the  prisoner  unknown,  masked  always  with  a  mask  of 
black  velvet,  whom  M.  de  Saint-Mars,  the  governor, 
brought  with  him  from  the  Isles  of  Sainte-Marguerite, 
and  whom  he  had  had  for  a  long  time,  happening  to  be 
rather  unwell  yesterday  on  coming  from  Mass,  died  this 
day  at  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  without  having 
had  any  serious  illness;  indeed,  it  could  not  have  been 
slighter.  M.  Giraut,  our  chaplain,  confessed  him  yester- 
day. Surprised  by  death,  he  did  not  receive  the  Sacra- 
ments, and  our  chaplain  exhorted  him  for  a  moment  be- 
fore he  died.  And  this  unknown  prisoner,  confined  for 
so  long  a  time,  was  buried  on  Tuesday  at  four  in  the 
afternoon,  in  the  cemetery  of  Saint  Paul,  our  parish;  on 
the  register  of  burial  he  was  given  a  name  also  unknown. 
M.  de  Rosarges,  major,  and  Arreil,  surgeon,  signed  the 
register." 

At  the  lower  left-hand  side  of  this  entry  in  Du  Junca's 
prison-registry  there  is  a  note  to  the  effect  that: 

"  I  have  since  learned  that  he  was  named  on  the  regis- 
ter M.  de  Marchiel,  and  that  the  burial  cost  forty  livres." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  entry  in  the  registry  of  Saint 
Paul's  runs  as  follows: 

"On  the  igth  (November,  1703)  Marchioly,  aged 
forty-five  or  thereabouts,  died  in  the  Bastile,  whose  body 

234 


TRUTH  OF  THE  IRON  MASK 

was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  Saint  Paul,  his  parish,  the 
2Oth  of  this  month  in  the  presence  of  M.  Rosage  (sic), 
major  of  the  Bastile,  and  of  M.  Reglhe  (sic),  surgeon- 
major  of  the  Bastile,  who  signed: 
"Signed:  Rosarges,  Reilhe." 

After  seeing  how  Du  Junca  makes  "  Marcheil  "  where 
the  sacristan  of  Saint  Paul  makes  the  name  "  Marchioly," 
it  is  presumable  that  Du  Junca  learned  it  by  word  of 
mouth  from  some  one  or  other;  also  that  the  name  itself 
had  been  communicated  to  Du  Junca's  informant  in  the 
same  manner  by  Rosarges  or  Reilhe  or  the  sacristan  — 
in  short,  that,  all  along,  the  name  was  an  unintentional 
corruption  of  "  Mattioli."  And  so  good-bye  to  his  com- 
petitors, in  the  popular  imagination,  to  the  title  of  "  Man 
in  the  Iron  Mask,"  Vermandois,  Monmouth,  Vendome, 
Fouquet,  an  unknown  twin  brother  of  Louis  XIV, 
Avedick,  the  Armenian  patriarch,  General  de  Bulonde, 
and  the  rest.  I  would  once  more  recommend  to  all  in- 
terested in  the  subject  Mr.  Tighe  Hopkins'  altogether 
admirable  publication  in  which  he  traces  and  destroys  the 
claims  of  each  and  every  one  of  these  candidates  to  be 
what  he  so  aptly  terms  "  The  Sphinx  of  French  History." 


CHAPTER   XV 

A  "  CAUSE  CELEBRE  " 

The  Defrene  Case,  a  Drama  of  Crime  and  of  Justice — The  Marquis 
Defrene — Marie-Elizabeth  du  Tillay — Elopement — Bogus  Marriage — 
Flight  to  England — Marriage  Made  Legal — The  Marquis  Tires  of 
the  Marriage  State — Evil  Plans — Marie-Elizabeth  Forewarned — 
Adventures  of  Her  Flight — The  "  Penitent  "  Defrene — Compromising 
Letters — The  Vindication  of  Marie-Elizabeth — A  Judicial  Separation. 

THE  name  of  that  same  Duchess-Regent  of  Savoy, 
Maria  Baptista  of  Nemours,  the  cause  of  Mat- 
tioli's  downfall  in  1679,  had  figured  in  connection  with 
another  and  now  long  forgotten  "  cause  celebre  "  some 
few  years  earlier,  in  1672  —  the  drama  of  crime  and  of 
justice  known  to  legal  annalists  as  the  "  Defrene  Case." 

Towards  the  year  1670  there  was  living  in  Paris  a 
young  man  of  the  name  of  Pierre  Hennequin,  Marquis 
Defrene.  Of  his  antecedents  I  have  no  knowledge,  but, 
by  all  accounts,  he  was  related  to  many  noble  and  influ- 
ential families;  a  personable  young  man  of  considerable 
address,  and  entirely  given  over  to  the  fashionable  life 
of  his  day  as  he  found  it  —  that  life  of  license,  bridled 
only  by  the  fear  of  a  death  upon  the  scaffold;  that  orgy 
of  dissipation  and  debt  by  the  encouragement  of  which 
Louis  XIV,  as  history  tells  us,  was  bent  upon  sapping  the 
resources  of  his  powerful  nobles  in  order  that  he  might 
cut  their  claws  and  impair  their  ability  ever  again  to  dis- 
pute the  absolute  authority  of  the  throne. 

As  many  another  young  man  of  that  period,  so  was 
the  Marquis  Defrene.  Resolutely  reckless  in  the  gratifi- 
cation of  every  passing  inclination,  and  the  slave  of  his 

236 


A  " CAUSE  CfiLEBRE " 

pleasures,  he  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  resources  when, 
as  Fate  would  have  it,  he  was  thrown  in  the  path  of  a 
young  and  lovely  girl,  Marie-Elizabeth  Girard  du  Tillay, 
the  daughter  of  the  President  of  the  Chamber  of  Ac- 
counts. M.  du  Tillay,  having,  as  a  careful  father,  satis- 
fied himself  as  to  the  complete  undesirability  of  the  Mar- 
quis in  the  character  of  a  son-in-law,  sternly  repelled  every 
attempt  of  the  young  man  to  gain  possession  of  Marie- 
Elizabeth's  affections.  All  M.  du  Tillay's  efforts  notwith- 
standing, however,  Defrene  succeeded  in  establishing  the 
tenderest  of  relations  with  the  girl  and,  ultimately,  in 
persuading  her  to  elope  with  him. 

But  it  was  necessary  for  the  Marquis  to  make  sure 
of  his  prey  as  quickly  as  possible,  lest  Marie-Elizabeth's 
scruples  and  her  love  for  the  father  upon  whom  and 
whose  house  she  was  now  turning  her  back,  at  his  invi- 
tation, should  gain  the  upper  hand  of  her  and  so  make 
her  return  to  her  home  in  order  to  obtain  the  parental 
blessing  and  consent  to  her  union  with  him.  No  priest, 
as  Defrene  well  knew,  would  join  them  in  marriage  with- 
out the  consent  of  the  girl's  father.  Marie-Elizabeth, 
however,  was  in  ignorance  of  this  fact;  so  that  she  was 
in  no  way  surprised  when  her  swain  informed  her  that 
he  had  a  priest  in  readiness  to  make  them  man  and  wife. 

This  priest,  indeed,  was  no  other  than  Defrene's  body- 
servant,  who  was  to  assume  the  sacerdotal  character  for 
the  occasion;  and  thus  between  the  two  scoundrels,  master 
and  man,  Marie-Elizabeth  was  deceived  into  going 
through  a  bogus  ceremony  of  marriage  with  the  blessing 
of  the  rascally  valet.  Having  carried  out  this  piece  of 
villainy  to  the  complete  deception  of  Marie-Elizabeth, 
who  now  believed  herself  a  marchioness  for  better  or  for 
worse,  Defrene  hastened  to  put  himself  beyond  the  reach 

237 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

of  French  law  by  crossing  the  channel  into  England,  to- 
gether with  his  victim,  since,  in  those  days,  the  protection 
of  foreign  criminals  —  poisoners  and  coiners  only  ex- 
cepted  —  was  considered  an  especial  attribute  of  the 
majesty  of  every  Sovereign. 

Ere  long,  however,  M.  du  Tillay  contrived  to  trace 
the  fugitive  pair  to  their  hiding-place.  It  is  more  than 
likely  that  he  learned  of  it  through  the  valet,  although 
upon  this  point  I  cartnot  come  at  any  certainty  —  for,  at 
the  same  time,  he  appears  to  have  learned  the  atrocious 
particulars  of  the  sham  marriage  and  to  have  done  all 
in  his  power  to  bring  the  Marquis  to  justice  for  it.  In 
this  M.  du  Tillay  had  the  powerful  aid  of  his  brother-in- 
law,  M.  Baillieu,  a  "  President  a  Mortier."  But  their 
labours  were  opposed  by  those  of  Defrene's  relatives,  who 
were  in  terror  lest  the  King  should  be  persuaded,  by  the 
two  eminent  officials,  to  ask  his  Brother  of  England  to 
make  him  a  present  of  the  Marquis,  that  he  might  in- 
flict condign  punishment  upon  him  for  his  villainy.  It 
ended  in  the  issuing  of  a  royal  decree  designed  to  satisfy 
both  parties;  by  this  decree  the  marriage  was  recognised 
as  legal  and  binding  upon  both  parties  —  in  deference  to 
the  sincerity  of  Mademoiselle  du  Tillay's  participation 
in  it,  its  fraudulent  character  notwithstanding  —  on  con- 
dition of  the  marriage  contract's  being  duly  signed  and 
exchanged  between  the  families  of  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom. To  this  compromise  the  kindly  Du  Tillay  gave 
his  adhesion,  and  thus  the  evil  deed  of  the  Marquis 
Defrene  was  righted  for  the  time  being. 

But  not  for  long;  soon  Defrene,  now  accepted  as  his 
lawful  son-in-law  by  Du  Tillay,  began  to  weary  of  the 
bonds  of  matrimony,  and,  disappointed  in  the  amount  of 
cash  he  had  hoped  to  extort  from  his  father-in-law,  he 

238 


A  "  CAUSE  C£L£BRE  " 

decided  to  try  his  luck  afresh  in  some  more  lucrative  quar- 
ter; to  this  end  he  made  up  his  mind  to  get  rid  of  poor 
Marie-Elizabeth,  that  he  might  be  free  to  take  another 
partner. 

It  should  not  have  been  difficult  for  him,  one  would 
think,  in  the  Paris  of  the  later  Seventeenth  Century,  to 
carry  out  his  inquitous  design,  without  overmuch  caution 
or  expense;  there  were  to  be  found  there  means  notori- 
ously at  the  disposal  of  gentlemen  in  Defrene's  predica- 
ment, provided  only  they  were  able  to  pay  the  price  of 
a  "  succession  powder  "  or  of  a  philtre  indistinguishable 
from  the  purest  water  save  in  its  deadly  results.  And 
yet  Defrene  could  not  screw  up  his  courage,  all  at  once, 
to  murdering  his  wife  out  of  hand  or  of  procuring  her 
assassination.  Truth  to  tell,  he  was  deterred  from  such 
a  course  by  the  salutary  severity  of  the  sentence  pro- 
nounced a  few  years  earlier,  in  1667,  upon  the  murderers 
of  the  unfortunate  Marquise  de  Gange,  who  had  been 
poisoned  by  her  brothers-in-law  with  the  tacit  approval  of 
her  unworthy  husband,  the  latter  having  been  condemned 
to  perpetual  banishment  with  the  loss  of  his  estates  and 
to  be  degraded  from  the  nobility;  while  the  actual  as- 
sassins were  sentenced  to  be  broken  alive  on  the  wheel. 

This  wholesome  fear,  then,  so  acted  upon  the  mind 
of  the  Marquis  Defrene  as  to  compel  him  to  devise  a 
more  subtle  method  of  doing  away  with  Marie-Elizabeth; 
a  method  as  diabolical  as  any  in  all  the  dark  records  of 
criminal  achievement. 

His  plan  was,  apparently,  simplicity  itself;  he  would 
voyage  abroad  with  Marie-Elizabeth  to  Constantinople 
and  would  there  sell  her  into  slavery  or  the  harem  of 
some  wealthy  Turk;  her  Beauty  would  command  a  sub- 
stantial price  that  would  reimburse  her  betrayer  for  the 

239 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

expenses  of  his  undertaking,  and  besides  he  could  return 
in  safety  to  give  out  that  she  was  dead,  and  to  claim  her 
entire  property  as  her  disconsolate  widower,  her  father 
having  recently  died. 

Having  arrived  at  this  decision,  he  informed  his  wife 
that  she  was  to  accompany  him  on  a  journey  that  he  was 
obliged  to  make  to  some  far-distant  baths  for  the  sake 
of  his  health;  and  Marie-Elizabeth,  ever  trustful  of  his 
designs,  and  of  his  surpassing  love  for  her,  consented  at 
once,  albeit  her  husband  did  not  enlighten  her  as  to  their 
actual  destination. 

From  Paris  they  travelled  to  Lyons  and  thence  to 
Beauvoisin.  From  the  latter  place  they  went  over  into 
Savoy,  which  they  crossed  in  the  direction  of  Genoa, 
Marie-Elizabeth  being  compelled  to  traverse  the  Alps, 
as  the  archives  tell  us,  "  on  a  vicious  mule  with  an  old 
pack-saddle."  But  from  the  moment  of  their  departure 
from  Paris  a  change  had  come  over  the  spirit  of  the 
doomed  woman;  ever  since  then,  when  Defrene  had  for- 
bidden her  to  bid  farewell  to  her  beloved  mother  and 
her  relatives,  Marie-Elizabeth  had  been  weighed  down 
with  forebodings  of  evil.  And  on  reaching  the  seaport 
of  Genoa  these  forebodings  seemed  to  acquire  the  most 
sinister  confirmation  in  a  hint  of  danger  conveyed  to  her 
by  a  good  and  compassionate  man,  Pierre  Pilette,  a 
wagoner  who  had  acted  as  their  guide  over  the  passes 
into  Italy. 

This  man  told  Marie-Elizabeth  that,  having  gone  with 
the  Marquis  (to  interpret  for  him,  presumably)  to  visit 
certain  merchants  of  Genoa,  Defrene  had  made  anxious 
inquiries  for  some  vessel  that  should  take  him  to  Con- 
stantinople; further,  that  Defrene  had  tried  to  obtain 
from  them  letters  of  credit  on  some  merchant  in  that 

240 


A  "  CAUSE  C£L£BRE  " 

city,  but  that  it  had  not  been  possible  for  them  to  accom- 
modate him,  although  they  had  cashed  all  such  letters 
upon  themselves  as  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
France. 

This  information,  imparted  to  her  by  Pilette,  was  the 
first  Marie-Elizabeth  had  heard  of  any  intention  of  her 
husband's  to  go  to  Constantinople;  and,  at  the  news,  her 
suspicions  of  his  conduct  turned  to  terror  that  was  all  the 
more  agonising  by  reason  of  the  need  for  dissembling  it 
in  Defrene's  presence.  From  Genoa  he  now  set  out,  with 
his  unhappy  wife  and  the  half-dozen  or  so  of  his  re- 
tainers whom  he  brought  with  him  —  Pilette  still  accom- 
panying them  to  look  after  the  horses  —  for  Savona, 
where,  as  he  had  been  led  to  expect,  he  might  find  a  vessel 
sailing  for  Constantinople.  Be  it  noted,  by  the  way,  that 
never  since  leaving  Paris  had  any  reference  to  the 
"  baths,"  of  which  he  had  declared  his  health  to  be  in 
need,  passed  Defrene's  lips;  and  never  —  save  on  the  oc- 
casion of  her  interview  with  Pilette  —  had  any  one  not  a 
member  of  the  Marquis'  household  been  allowed  to  ex- 
change a  single  word  in  private  with  his  wife. 

On  the  journey,  however,  to  Savona,  Marie-Elizabeth 
contrived  to  whisper  her  fears  to  Pilette  (who,  I  take  it, 
was  leading  her  mule  by  the  bridle  along  the  then  dan- 
gerous coast-road),  imploring  him  to  save  her  from  her 
husband  and  to  bring  her  into  a  place  of  safety,  whence 
she  might  communicate  with  her  relatives;  and  Pilette, 
moved  by  her  tears  and  entreaties,  promised  that  he  would 
do  his  best  at  all  costs  to  deliver  her  from  her  enemies. 
He  had  friends,  he  told  her,  at  Savona,  an  inn-keeper 
and  his  wife,  to  whose  hostel  he  would  bring  her,  who 
would  take  care  of  her.  And  from  their  hands  Pilette 
promised,  moreover,  that  he  would  take  her,  afterwards, 

241 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

to  Turin,  there  to  place  her  under  the  protection  of  the 
Duchess  of  Savoy. 

Arrived  at  Savona,  Defrene  lodged  himself  and  his 
party  in  this  inn,  to  which  Pilette  had  led  them;  here  he 
found  a  ship  preparing  to  sail  for  Constantinople  and 
so  made  his  arrangements  with  her  owner  for  the  trans- 
port of  himself  and  his  wife  to  the  Turkish  capital.  The 
day  before  that  appointed  for  sailing,  however,  he  had 
to  go  down  to  the  wharf  in  order  to  pay  over  their 
passage  money,  leaving  Marie-Elizabeth  locked  up  in  her 
bedroom.  This  was  Pilette's  opportunity;  no  sooner  had 
the  Marquis  left  the  premises  than  he  went  up  to  Marie- 
Elizabeth's  room,  armed  with  a  key  furnished  him  by  his 
friend  the  host,  unlocked  the  door,  and  released  the  pris- 
oner for  whose  flight  he  had  everything  in  readiness. 

Going  down  to  the  street  with  her  deliverer,  Marie- 
Elizabeth  found  a  closed  sedan-chair  waiting  for  her,  into 
which  she  stepped,  and  was  then  quickly  borne  away  out 
of  town  into  the  hills,  followed  by  the  faithful  Pilette. 
For  nearly  thirty  miles  they  pursued  their  way  northwards 
until,  on  striking  the  village  of  Cortemiglia,  Pilette  left 
his  charge  in  the  inn  of  the  place,  whilst  he  himself  went 
to  seek  out  Count  Scarampo,  the  lord  of  that  district,  and 
to  entrust  Marie-Elizabeth  to  that  gentleman's  safe- 
keeping. 

But,  just  as  he  was  leaving  the  inn  for  that  purpose, 
what  was  Pilette's  consternation  on  beholding  a  party  of 
men  come  tearing  up  the  road,  headed  by  none  other  than 
Defrene  in  person,  to  an  accompaniment  of  shouts  and 
the  waving  of  swords  and  firearms !  Taking  to  his  heels, 
the  defenceless  Pilette  fled  incontinently  down  the  village 
street  pursued  by  the  Marquis  and  his  gang  with  musket- 
shots  and  imprecations.  Fortunately,  he  continued  to 

242 


A  " CAUSE  CfiLfiBRE " 

elude  them  and  to  make  his  way  to  the  castle  of  Count 
Scarampo,  to  whom  he  gave  warning  of  what  was  going 
forward  in  the  village.  The  Count,  nothing  loath,  at 
once  called  out  his  own  men  and  rushed  down  to  the  vil- 
lage to  do  battle  for  the  lady  with  her  husband  and  his 
retainers;  in  this  he  was  joined  by  the  local  magistrate, 
and  so  the  two  with  their  supporters  reached  the  little 
inn,  whence  a  piteous  din  of  shrieks  and  blows  came  out 
into  the  roadway. 

Having  abandoned  the  pursuit  of  Pilette,  Defrene  had 
returned  hot-foot  to  the  inn,  which  he  had  invaded  in 
search  of  his  wife;  in  spite  of  the  host's  protests,  he  had 
forced  his  way  to  where  Marie-Elizabeth  was  cowering 
in  a  back  room  and  had  set  upon  her  with  a  cudgel  as 
well  as  with  his  fists  and  feet;  had  it  not  been  for  the 
timely  arrival  of  Scarampo  and  the  judge,  moreover, 
there  can  be  small  doubt  but  that  the  tiger-hearted  Mar- 
quis would  have  made  an  end,  then  and  there,  of  the  mis- 
erable woman.  Providentially,  though,  their  coming 
prevented  this,  when,  seeing  that  resistance  was  useless, 
Defrene  submitted  to  their  arrest  of  him. 

For  the  time  being,  Marie-Elizabeth  was  safe  from 
her  husband's  cruelty.  Taken  by  Count  Scarampo  to  his 
castle,  she  was  there  received  by  the  Countess,  as  the 
chronicle  relates,  "  with  much  compassion  and  with  a  dis- 
tinguished politeness."  Here  she  was  rejoined  by  Pilette, 
under  whose  escort  she  set  out  before  dawn  of  the  next 
day  on  the  road  to  Turin. 

Such  was  her  condition,  however,  as  the  result  of  the 
ill-treatment  she  had  suffered,  that,  by  evening,  she  had 
gone  no  further  than  Alba,  a  town  on  the  Tanaro,  where 
she  sought  out  the  governor  and  threw  herself  upon  his 
protection  against  any  further  attempts  on  the  part  of  her 

243 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

detestable  husband.  The  official  kindly  took  her  into  his 
own  house;  but  scarcely  had  he  done  so  than  her  pursuer, 
having  escaped  from  his  gaolers  at  Cortemiglia,  turned 
up,  on  foot  and  alone,  at  Alba,  in  his  latest  character  — 
that  of  a  penitent  and  broken-hearted  suppliant  for  his 
wife's  forgiveness.  In  this  new  role  he  presented  himself 
before  the  governor,  begging  for  an  interview  with 
Marie-Elizabeth,  that  he  might  soften  her  heart  with  the 
sight  and  the  sighs  of  him. 

To  these  entreaties  the  governor  demurred  for  a  time, 
but  at  last  suffered  himself  to  be  persuaded  to  consent 
to  an  interview  between  the  husband  and  wife  on  the 
stipulation  that  it  should  take  place  under  his  own  eyes; 
he  even  went  to  the  length  of  inducing  Marie-Elizabeth 
to  see  Defrene,  although  she  herself  was  strongly  opposed 
to  such  a  concession. 

When  Defrene  found  himself  once  more  in  her  pres- 
ence, he  cast  himself  grovelling  at  his  wife's  feet,  refusing 
to  rise,  with  a  thousand  protestations,  a  thousand  vows, 
of  his  undying  love  for  her.  He  had  not,  he  swore,  the 
least  ill-design  against  her  in  the  journey  he  had  under- 
taken; handing  her  his  sword,  he  begged  that  she  would 
either  pardon  him  or  else  put  him  out  of  his  sufferings. 
By  all  that  was  holy,  he  promised  he  would  take  her 
back  to  France  without  fail  if  she  would  but  have  faith 
in  him —  in  short,  he  would  be  her  slave  in  all  things. 

After  several  repetitions  of  this  comedy,  "  que  Baron  * 
n'aurait  si  bien  jouee  que  lui  " —  again  I  quote  from  the 
accounts  of  the  time  —  the  Marquis  succeeded  in  winning 
over  the  governor  to  his  side,  and  got  him,  in  spite  of 
Marie-Elizabeth's  protests,  to  write  to  the  Duke  of  Savoy 
for  permission  to  deliver  her  into  Defrene's  keeping,  on 

*  Baron:  The  celebrated  French  playwright  and   actor   (1653-1729). 

244 


A  " CAUSE  CELEBRE " 

condition  of  his  taking  her  back  to  France  without  doing 
her  any  further  injury,  and  of  his  solemnly  pledging  him- 
self to  answer  for  his  good  behaviour  to  the  Duke  and 
to  the  King  of  France. 

At  the  same  time  Marie-Elizabeth  wrote  to  the  Duke 
and  Duchess  of  Savoy,  telling  them  the  whole  story  of 
her  husband's  ill-treatment  of  her,  and  imploring  their 
protection;  this  letter  was  intercepted  by  the  Marquis 
and  destroyed.  Soon  an  answer  was  returned  to  the  gov- 
ernor's communication,  giving  him  the  requisite  permis- 
sion to  deliver  Marie-Elizabeth  into  her  husband's  keep- 
ing on  the  conditions  already  stated,  of  his  answering 
to  his  own  Sovereign  and  the  Duke  of  Savoy  for  his  con- 
duct towards  her  on  the  journey  home.  Thus  the  luck- 
less woman  was  once  more  delivered  into  the  hands  of 
her  crafty  and  relentless  foe. 

For  a  space  all  went  well  with  her,  so  long  as  they 
were  accompanied  by  an  officer  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy 
charged  with  seeing  that  Defrene  behaved  himself;  but 
no  sooner  were  they  once  more  by  themselves  than  his 
evil  designs  came  again  to  light.  Having  reached  the 
village  of  Lanslebourg  at  the  northern  foot  of  the  Mont 
Cenis,  where  the  Savoyard  officer  took  his  leave  of  them, 
Dufrene  placed  his  wife  under  lock  and  key  in  a  room 
in  the  village  inn  and  applied  himself  to  the  problem  con- 
fronting him  —  that  of  how  to  accomplish  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  wife  without  rendering  himself  liable  to  the 
law. 

And  at  this  point  it  occurred  to  him  to  fall  back  on 
a  stratagem  of  which  he  had  already,  months  earlier, 
made  a  beginning,  but  had  abandoned  it  through  impa- 
tience and  failure. 

This  stratagem  consisted  in  accusing  Marie-Elizabeth 

245 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

of  attempting  to  murder  him  by  means  of  poison  —  a 
crime  punishable  with  death.  As  he  now  saw  clearly, 
the  main  thing  needful  to  the  success  of  such  a  method 
was  that  he  should  be  able  to  produce  some  incontrovert- 
ible evidence,  and  that  so  atrocious,  of  Marie-Elizabeth's 
depravity  as  to  bring  her  within  distance  of  the  scaffold; 
failing  which,  it  must  be  at  least  such  as  to  serve  him  as 
an  excuse  for  his  attempt  to  sell  her  into  slavery. 

With  this  amiable  purpose  Defrene  applied  all  his  tal- 
ents to  the  composing  of  a  series  of  no  less  than  twenty- 
four  letters  purporting  to  be  written  by  his  wife  to  her 
various  lovers  and  couched  in  the  most  abandoned  of 
terms.  Having  done  this,  he  came  with  them  to  Marie- 
Elizabeth,  and  ordered  her  to  copy  out  the  vile  effusions 
so  that  he  might  have  them  in  her  own  handwriting  as 
an  irrefutable  proof  of  her  guilt  against  him. 

For  long  she  refused  to  obey  his  commands;  until, 
at  length,  Defrene  drew  a  knife  and  threatened  her  with 
it;  but  even  this  made  no  impression  upon  her  resolve 
to  defend  her  honour. 

"  Kill  me  if  you  will  —  I  would  prefer  to  die  rather 
than  to  write  those  horrible  letters,"  she  said.  u  All  I 
ask  is  that  you  will  let  me  have  a  priest  to  whom  I  may 
first  confess  myself  —  let  me,  at  least,  die  like  a 
Christian!  " 

To  this  request,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  Defrene  turned 
a  deaf  ear. 

u  Write  as  I  tell  you  —  or  die  as  you  are,  in  your 
sins !  "  he  cried.  "  Come,  be  quick  about  it " 

At  the  prospect  of  going  into  eternity  in  that  fashion, 
so  frightful  to  one  of  her  upbringing,  Marie-Elizabeth's 
courage  broke  down.  Taking  the  pen  that  Defrene  held 
out  to  her,  she  began  to  copy  the  abominations  set  before 

246 


A  "CAUSE  CfrLfiBRE" 

her,  the  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  her  heart  sick 
and  appalled  at  the  thing  she  was  doing. 

As  she  finished  copying  each  letter,  Defrene  took  his 
own  original  draft  of  it  and  burned  it  in  the  fire  —  so 
that  all  hope  seemed  gone  for  Marie-Elizabeth  of  ever 
being  able  to  prove  her  innocence  of  them.  And,  all  the 
while,  she  never  ceased  from  praying  Heaven  to  come  to 
her  aid. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  knock  on  the  locked  door  of  the 
room  in  which  they  were  sitting;  rising  hastily,  Defrene 
went  to  the  door  and  let  himself  out  into  the  corridor, 
taking  care  to  close  and  lock  the  door  again  behind  him. 
Instantly  Marie-Elizabeth  saw  her  chance  and  took  it. 

It  so  happened  that,  at  the  moment  of  Defrene's  being 
called  away,  she  had  all  but  come  to  an  end  of  copying 
one  of  the  letters;  finishing  quickly  she  seized  the  draft 
of  it  in  Defrene's  handwriting  and  slipped  it  between 
the  lining  of  her  bodice,  that  chanced  to  be  torn,  and  the 
bodice  itself.  Then,  snatching  up  a  needle  and  thread, 
she  sewed  up  the  rent  over  the  letter  and,  resuming  her 
pen,  wrote  on  again  for  dear  life.  Providentially,  her 
husband  was  kept  in  conversation  a  considerable  time. 
When  he  returned  to  her,  she  had  written  out  yet  another 
of  the  unspeakable  letters,  and  Defrene  had  lost  count 
of  the  originals;  so  that  he  did  not  miss  the  one  she  had 
secreted  on  her  person. 

Finally,  having  completed  her  task,  she  threw  down 
the  pen  and  covered  her  face  in  her  hands  —  as  Defrene 
triumphantly  imagined  in  consternation  at  the  weapon  of 
which  he  was  now  in  possession  against  her;  in  reality, 
for  fear  lest  he  might  see  the  relief  in  her  expression. 
For  now,  indeed,  thanks  to  the  letter  concealed  in  her 
clothing,  he  was  taken  in  his  own  snare  I 

247 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

And  so  it  proved  when,  a  few  weeks  later,  the  Marquis 
went  the  rounds  of  his  acquaintance  armed  with  Marie- 
Elizabeth's  pretended  letters  to  her  lovers;  to  which  she, 
now  safe  once  more  in  her  mother's  house,  replied  by 
making  known  the  circumstances  under  which  they  had 
been  written,  and  by  showing  to  all  the  world  Defrene's 
draft  in  his  own  handwriting  that  she  had  so  fortunately 
been  enabled  to  secrete  in  her  dress. 

The  matter  ended  in  her  obtaining  a  judicial  separation 
from  the  Marquis,  who  soon  became  involved  in  another 
and  even  darker  iniquity  —  the  case  of  Madame  de  Brin- 
villiers  —  through  his  intimacy  with  the  truly  diabolical 
Sainte-Croix;  an  intimacy  that  all  but  obtained  him  the 
public  services  of  the  executioner. 


1248 


CHAPTER   XVI 

EUSTOCHIA 

A  Child  of  Sin — Born  1444 — Her  Early  Peculiarities — Physical  Posses- 
sion by  Evil  Spirits — Sent  to  a  Convent — A  Life  of  Devotion — Eustochia 
a  Novitiate — A  Supernatural  Accident — Belief  that  She  Was  a  Hypo- 
crite— Resignation — The  Evil  Spirit  in  Possession — Frightful  Torments 
— Evil  Portents — A  Sorceress? — Imprisonment — Persecutions  by  In- 
visible Powers — Regaining  Good  Esteem — A  Nun— Her  Sanctity  and 
Constancy — Her  Death  and  Burial. 

THE  story  of  her,  who  was  baptised  by  the  name  of 
Lucrezia  Bellini  and  is  now  revered  by  the  Church 
under  that  of  Eustochia,  which  she  assumed  on  becoming 
a  Benedictine  nun,  in  the  year  1461,  is  one  of  the  very 
strangest  that  even  the  Italian  Quattrocento  has  to  show. 
For  it  is  the  story  of  a  child  of  sin  who  was  tormented 
all  her  days  by  the  Adversary  of  mankind,  and  who  was 
yet  a  saint. 

In  these,  our  own  latter  days,  when  the  world  at  large 
is  recovering  somewhat  from  the  prolonged  epidemic  of 
materialism  from  which  it  had  been  suffering  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  the  fact  of  su- 
pernatural "  possession  "  is  coming  to  be  recognised  by 
many  of  the  strongest  scientific  intellects  as  the  only  pos- 
sible and  rational  explanation  of  certain  among  the  nu- 
merous cases  of  mental  perversity  that  fill  our  modern 
prisons  and  asylums.  Even  —  so  I  have  been  given  to 
understand  —  the  "  Salpetriere  "  itself  has  been  known 
to  express  opinions  favourable  to  the  theory  of  possession 
in  some  instances.  So  that  the  story  of  Eustochia  may 
not  be  deemed  to  be  unworthy  of  attention  —  even  by 

249 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

those  persons  who  ordinarily  find  it  difficult  to  believe 
anything  unless  it  has  already  received  the  endorsement 
of  their  fellow-creatures'  belief. 

The  natural  daughter  of  a  dissolute  citizen  of  Terra 
di  Gemola  in  the  Veneto,  Lucrezia  was  born  in  shame 
and  secrecy  in  the  year  1444,  at  Padua,  and  was  sent 
at  once  to  her  father,  Bartolomeo  Bellini,  at  Gemola. 
Bartolomeo  Bellini  was,  alas!  a  married  man  with  a 
lawful  wife  and  family  of  his  own;  none  the  less,  he 
received  the  child  with  some  show  of  gladness  and  im- 
mediately saw  to  her  being  properly  baptised,  giving  her 
the  name  of  Lucrezia;  after  which  he  handed  her  over 
to  a  nurse  under  whose  care  the  little  Lucrezia  remained 
until  she  was  four  years  old,  when  Bellini  sent  for  her 
to  come  and  live  with  him  and  his  family  in  his  own  house. 
By  this  time  she  had  become  very  pretty,  as  well  as  being 
already  endowed  with  considerable  charm  and  brightness 
of  spirit 

On  seeing  her  again,  her  father  came  to  love  Lucrezia 
with  an  especial  tenderness;  but,  to  his  wife,  not  unnatu- 
rally, the  sight  of  the  little  girl  was  gall  and  bitterness, 
in  its  reminder  of  her  husband's  infidelity  to  her;  and 
the  Signora  Bellini  soon  grew  to  hate  the  presence  of 
Lucrezia. 

Nor  were  Bellini's  own  good  sentiments  towards  his 
daughter  suffered  to  endure  for  long. 

It  seemed  to  those  with  whom  she  was  in  daily  and 
hourly  contact  that  there  was  something  odd  about 
Lucrezia;  for  all  her  charm  and  goodness,  the  child,  in 
some  indefinable  way,  was  not  as  other  children,  but 
rather  as  one  mysteriously  marked  down  by  Providence 
for  some  especial  purpose  of  Its  own. 

And  then,  suddenly,  Lucrezia's  peculiarities  began  to 


EUSTOCHIA 

take  definite  shape,  and  to  manifest  themselves  in  the 
most  disconcerting  manner  by  a  nervous  inability  to  con- 
trol the  movements  of  her  own  limbs  —  as  it  were  a  kind 
of  Saint  Vitus'  dance.  Even  against  her  express  wish, 
she  would  constantly  find  herself  compelled  to  do  this 
or  that;  she  was  even,  occasionally,  raised  bodily  by  some 
invisible  force  above  the  ground.  Her  confessor  de- 
clared himself  of  the  opinion  that  she  was  under  some 
strong  preternatural  influence,  but  of  what  kind,  precisely, 
he  was  unable  at  once  to  determine.  For,  although  she 
was  frequently  moved  to  certain  movements  by  some  will 
other  than  her  own,  yet  her  mind  was  entirely  subject  to 
her  own  control;  consequently,  one  cannot  quite  think 
her  to  have  yet  been  actually  in  a  state  of  possession,  her 
condition  appearing  to  approximate  rather  to  one  of 
slight  epilepsy. 

But  this  was  only  the  beginning  of  Lucrezia's  long 
trial.  In  spite  of  her  very  real  sufferings,  her  spirit  main- 
tained the  calm  of  a  constant  recollection  in  God,  together 
with  the  unceasing  interior  practice  of  the  most  meritori- 
ous acts  of  resignation  and  faith.  As  time  went  on,  how- 
ever, the  fact  of  her  physical  possession  by  evil  spirits 
became  self-evident,  and  Lucrezia  herself  an  object  of 
the  utmost  aversion  —  nay,  of  fury  —  to  her  father,  who 
refused  to  recognise  in  his  child's  condition  the  anger 
of  Heaven  upon  himself  for  the  sin  of  her  birth. 

So  matters  came  to  the  point  of  Lucrezia's  being 
brought  to  the  Bishop  —  Monsignor  Pietro  Donato,  I 
fancy  —  that  he  might  exorcise  the  spirit  that  tormented 
her;  which,  as  it  seemed  at  first,  he  successfully  did,  for 
during  some  weeks  after  the  exorcism  Lucrezia  was  able 
to  pursue  the  practice  of  her  religion  without  let  or 
hindrance;  so  that  she  was  considered  permanently  healed. 

251 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

But  it  was  not  fated  to  be  so;  her  foe  had  only  changed 
his  tactics,  and  now,  although  still  capable  of  constant 
interior  acts  of  devotion,  the  hitherto  gentle  girl  began, 
to  the  amazement  of  all  who  knew  her,  to  show  herself 
undocile,  rough  of  speech,  and  extremely  resentful  of  the 
Signora  Bellini's  unkindness  to  her.  This  new  develop- 
ment, which  was  altogether  contrary  to  her  own  inclina- 
tions, only  brought  upon  her  the  increased  anger  and 
dislike  of  her  father,  who,  together  with  his  wife,  pro- 
ceeded to  treat  her  so  harshly  as  to  bring  her  more  than 
once  to  the  verge  of  the  grave.  Beaten,  starved,  and 
neglected,  the  friendless  child  knew  not  where  to  find 
refuge  from  her  misery  save  only  in  God,  to  whom  she 
had  completely  given  herself. 

She  was  now  seven  years  old,  timid  and  crushed  by  suf- 
fering, but  with  her  heart  full  of  charity  and  faith;  never- 
theless, her  father,  being  tempted  by  the  father  of  lies, 
fell  into  the  belief  that  Lucrezia,  in  revenge  for  his  cru- 
elty to  her,  was  minded  to  poison  him  —  and  so  he 
resolved  to  murder  her.  From  this  intention,  however, 
the  tempter,  having  no  mind  presumably  that  Lucrezia 
should  be  killed  and  pass  in  all  her  innocence  to  a  better 
world  —  dissuaded  Bellini,  so  that  he  changed  his  mind 
and  sent  her  instead  to  the  Convent  of  San  Prosdocimo, 
in  the  city  of  Padua,  there  to  finish  her  education. 

Now,  during  the  latter  half  of  the  Fifteenth  Century, 
in  Italy  it  was  not  unusual  to  find  convents  of  religious 
orders  in  which  the  strict  practice  of  the  rules  laid  down 
centuries  earlier  for  their  guidance  by  the  holy  founders 
of  those  same  orders  had  become  in  the  course  of  time 
somewhat  relaxed.  The  Rule  —  the  very  backbone,  so  to 
speak,  of  a  religious  community  —  had  grown,  through 
long,  indulgent  gentleness  on  the  part  of  Superiors,  so 

252 


EUSTOCHIA 

mild  as  to  be  no  longer  suitable  to  the  special  necessities 
of  the  enclosed  life;  there  was  too  much  intercourse  al- 
lowed with  the  outer  world,  the  affairs  and  interests  of 
which  had  come  in  consequence  to  occupy  too  large  a  part 
in  the  thoughts  and  natural  sympathies  of  those  called 
by  their  vocation  to  lead  the  higher  spiritual  existence  of 
the  cloister.  And  so  we  find  that  many  bishops  and  abbots 
and  abbesses  devoted  themselves  particularly  to  the  task 
of  bringing  back  their  "  houses  "  to  the  close  observance 
of  their  various  original  "  Rules  " —  Franciscan,  Do- 
minican, Benedictine,  and  others. 

The  convent  of  San  Prosdocimo  belonged  to  the  Bene- 
dictines, but,  unhappily,  it  was  one  of  those  houses  that 
had  fallen  into  slackness,  and  into  which  had  crept  the 
habit  of  worldly  conversation  and  of  carelessness  in 
regard  to  the  strict  observance  of  the  regulations,  imposed 
by  their  most  illustrious  father  and  founder,  for  the  guid- 
ance of  his  spiritual  children. 

It  was,  then,  to  the  care  of  the  somewhat  relaxed 
sisterhood  of  San  Prosdocimo  that  Lucrezia  was  com- 
mitted by  her  father;  and,  within  a  short  time  of  her- 
entry  as  a  pupil  into  the  convent,  although  the  youngest 
of  its  occupants  in  years,  she  showed  herself  far  the  ripest 
in  all  goodness,  the  best  balanced,  and  the  most  intelligent. 

Of  a  cheerful  temperament,  a  lively  and  captivating 
personality,  Lucrezia  was  never  frivolous  or  superficial; 
but,  preserving  her  habitual  state  of  recollection  in  calm 
and  solitude,  her  life  was  one  continual  prayer.  For  her 
patrons  she  chose  three  —  the  Mother  of  God,  Saint 
Jerome,  and  Saint  Luke  the  evangelist. 

Nine  years  the  girl  lived  thus  without  being  more  than 
very  slightly  troubled  by  the  evil  spirit  who  sought  her 
destruction;  until  the  year  1460,  when  the  death  of  the 

253 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Abbess  brought  about  great  changes  in  the  convent. 
Upon  that  event  Monsignor  Zenoni,  who  had  succeeded 
Monsignor  Donato  as  Bishop  of  Padua,  considered  that 
the  time  was  come  to  introduce  a  more  strict  administra- 
tion in  the  convent  and  to  revive  among  its  inmates  the 
spirit  of  Saint  Benedict.  With  this  object  he  forbade  the 
nuns  to  elect  their  next  Superior  from  among  their  num- 
ber until  the  reformations  that  he  considered  necessary 
should  have  been  brought  about  in  their  community.  The 
nuns,  though,  dismayed  by  the  uncompromising  words 
"  reform "  and  "  strict  observance,"  took  fright  at 
Monsignor  Zenoni's  salutary  projects  and  transferred 
themselves  in  a  body  with  their  pupils  to  another  house 
of  the  order. 

The  only  one  of  all  the  convent's  inmates  to  accept 
the  Bishop's  ordinance  and  to  remain  faithful  to  her 
post  was  the  sixteen-year-old  Lucrezia;  abandoned  by 
her  superiors  and  companions,  Lucrezia  kept  watch  and 
ward  alone  in  the  deserted  building  until  the  Bishop  sent 
over  to  join  her  a  body  of  sisters  from  the  convent  of 
Santa  Maria  della  Misericordia,  appointing  Donna 
Giustina  Lazzara,  a  noble  lady  of  Padua,  to  be  their 
Abbess.  With  the  coming  of  Donna  Giustina  and  her 
companions,  the  primitive  practice  and  regular  observ- 
ance of  Saint  Benedict's  Rule  became  again  the  life  of 
the  house  of  San  Prosdocimo. 

Lucrezia's  whole  being  rejoiced  exceedingly  in  the 
new  order  of  things  in  the  convent  and  she  determined 
to  become,  if  possible,  a  nun  and  a  sister  in  religion  of 
those  about  her.  When  she  confided  her  desire  to  them, 
however,  she  met  with  no  encouragement;  the  truth  was 
that,  although  they  had  no  fault  to  find  with  her  person- 
ally, yet  knowing  her  history  and  that  of  her  parents  and 

254 


EUSTOCHIA 

seeing  that  she  had  been  brought  up  hitherto  under  the 
influence  of  more  or  less  careless  elders,  the  nuns  could 
not  help  feeling  rather  doubtful  of  Lucrezia's  fitness  for 
the  religious  life.  Her  very  piety  they  were  inclined  to 
consider  merely  superficial,  and  possibly  a  trifle  simulated 
in  one  as  yet  untried  by  discipline.  At  first  even  Donna 
Giustina  was  drawn  to  this  opinion;  but,  on  reflection,  she 
came  to  the  conclusion  that,  after  all,  such  prejudices 
might  well  constitute  a  grave  injustice,  and,  remembering 
how  Lucrezia  had  remained  in  the  convent  when  the  oth- 
ers had  fled,  she  at  length  consented  to  accept  her  as  a 
postulant  for  the  stupendous  honour  of  a  bride  of  Christ. 
And  so,  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  her  companions,  Lucrezia 
was  invested  with  the  habit  of  their  order,  January  15, 
1461;  in  honour  of  her  patron,  Saint  Jerome,  she  took 
the  name  of  Eustochia,  the  daughter  of  Saint  Paula  and 
the  pupil  of  Saint  Jerome.  The  ceremony,  however,  was 
marked  for  Lucrezia  by  an  untoward  incident  which 
served  to  create  a  further  unfavourable  impression  to- 
wards her  on  the  part  of  the  other  nuns;  for,  as  the  priest 
was  giving  her  the  Communion,  the  Sacred  Host  slipped 
from  his  fingers  and  fell  to  the  ground,  an  accident  which 
they  chose  to  regard  as  a  mark  of  the  Divine  displeasure 
towards  her. 

From  the  day  of  her  thus  taking  the  veil,  the  real 
martyrdom  of  Eustochia  began.  Until  then,  since  her 
entry  into  the  convent,  her  sufferings  at  the  hands  of 
the  Adversary  had  been  comparatively  light  and  she  had 
been  able  to  conceal  his  attacks  upon  her.  But  now  his 
possession  of  her  became  more  malignantly  active,  mani- 
festing itself  by  controlling  her  movements  so  as  to  make 
her  commit  some  slight  exterior  fault  of  deportment 
against  the  Rule,  so  that  her  companions,  witnesses  of 

255 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Eustochia's  small  breach  of  discipline,  were  more  than 
ever  confirmed  in  the  opinion  that  she  was  a  hypocrite. 
By  degrees  this  feeling  increased  among  them  until  it 
arrived  at  the  point  of  her  being  shunned  by  them  as  a 
moral  leper. 

And  all  the  while  Eustochia,  in  exquisite,  faithful  hum- 
bleness, gave  thanks  to  Heaven  for  Its  just  judgment  upon 
her,  as  she  deemed  it,  accusing  herself  before  God  and  the 
Abbess  of  having  brought  these  punishments  upon  herself 
by  her  sins  —  so  that,  while  she  lost  the  good  opinion 
of  those  about  her,  she  gained  incessant  merit  in  the  eyes 
of  her  Creator.  And  now  the  hour  of  Eustochia's  long 
darkness  sounded,  during  which  she  was  destined  to  drink 
to  the  dregs  the  cup  of  trial. 

A  month  before  the  feast  of  Saint  Jerome  —  that  is, 
towards  the  end  of  August  —  that  same  year  of  1461, 
Eustochia  felt  herself  much  perturbed  and  ill  at  ease  in 
her  heart;  and  her  countenance,  to  the  disquiet  of  the 
whole  house,  took  on  an  expression  at  once  sombre  and 
menacing  and  quite  unaccountable  to  the  beholders,  with 
the  exception  of  Father  Peter  Salicario,  the  chaplain  of 
the  convent,  who  alone  grasped  the  terrible  meaning 
of  it. 

Father  Salicario  at  once  proceeded  to  prepare  Eusto- 
chia for  the  coming  assault  of  her  foe  by  counselling  and 
exhorting  her;  moreover,  the  good  man  straightway 
warned  the  Abbess  and  her  nuns  of  the  approaching 
storm.  What  effect  this  had  upon  Donna  Giustina's  rela- 
tions with  Eustochia,  I  do  not  know  precisely,  but  the 
nuns  themselves  were,  as  may  easily  be  imagined,  greatly 
agitated  by  it;  also,  they  were  only  the  more  inclined  to 
resent  the  presence  in  their  midst  of  one  in  whom  the 
evil  spirit  had  apparently  taken  up  his  abode.  The 

256 


EUSTOCHIA 

horror  of  Eustochia's  proximity  seemed  to  them  unbear- 
able, and  they  joined  in  protesting  to  Donna  Giustina 
against  any  further  continuance  of  it.  She,  however, 
was  of  a  more  courageous  nature  than  they,  and  had 
perfect  faith  in  the  protection  of  the  convent  by  Heaven. 

The  feast  of  Saint  Jerome  passed  uneventfully  enough 
(as  though  in  unwilling  tribute  to  his  splendour  and  the 
power  of  his  patronage),  but  on  the  next  day  the  tempest 
broke  loose. 

We  are  told  that  it  was  as  if  a  subterranean  mine 
had  been  exploded  in  the  quiet  convent;  and  as  if  the  Devil 
had  entered  there  as  an  executioner  with  every  circum- 
stance of  fear  and  horror.  The  agonised  contortions  of 
Eustochia  were  frightful  to  see  as  she  twisted  herself  like 
a  serpent  in  the  extremity  of  her  torments,  the  while  her 
cries  filled  all  the  place  with  their  lamentation. 

The  greater  number  of  the  sisters  fled  from  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  poor  possessed,  although  a  few  attempted  to 
watch  over  her  at  a  little  distance  lest  she  should  harm 
herself;  but  suddenly  Eustochia,  whom  they  had  always 
known  as  the  gentlest  of  beings,  seized  a  knife  and  ran 
upon  them,  so  that  they  also  ran  from  her.  She  even  pur- 
sued them  until  she  fell  over  a  bench,  down  on  to  which 
she  sank,  deprived  for  a  time  of  all  further  power  of 
movement.  Father  Salicario,  on  being  sent  for,  sum- 
moned the  evil  spirit  to  speak;  which  it  did  as  usual  by 
the  mouth  of  its  victim,  saying  that  it  had  been  checked 
in  the  midst  of  its  fury  by  the  power  of  Saint  Jerome 
and  confined  to  the  bench.  Upon  an  attempt  to  exorcise 
it,  however,  it  became  again  so  violent  that  Eustochia 
had  to  be  secured  for  some  days  lest  she  should  do  a 
hurt  to  herself  or  to  others.  During  that  time  her  tor- 
ments were  indescribable,  her  enemy  doing  all  that  he 

257 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

could  to  make  an  end  of  her,  now  by  strangling,  now  with 
heavy  blows  from  an  unseen  hand  that  beat  her  to  the 
ground  in  a  half-dying  condition.  Not  a  word  of  impa- 
tience escaped,  however,  from  the  afflicted  girl,  and  in  the 
intervals  of  her  sufferings  she  never  failed  to  give  thanks 
for  them  to  God.  Eventually,  her  patience  and  fortitude 
discouraged  the  demon,  and  for  a  space  again  he  left  her 
in  peace.  But  now  the  bad  opinion  already  entertained  of 
Eustochia  by  the  community  seemed  to  receive  the 
strongest  confirmation  from  a  series  of  unfortunate  oc- 
currences. Be  it  said,  frankly,  that  the  rest  of  the  nuns 
were  firmly  convinced  that  Eustochia  was  a  sorceress  and 
that  she  was  feigning  piety  as  a  cloak  to  conceal  her  com- 
merce with  the  Prince  of  this  world. 

For  all  at  once  the  Abbess  fell  ill  of  a  strange  malady, 
the  nature  of  which  it  was  beyond  all  the  science  of  the 
doctors  to  determine.  It  was  a  kind  of  slow,  wasting  sick- 
ness without  any  definite  features  beyond  the  ever  increas- 
ing debility  of  the  patient;  so  that,  as  rumour  soon  had 
it  in  the  convent,  Donna  Giustina  was  the  victim  of  some 
malignant,  supernatural  process  emanating  from  Eusto- 
chia, upon  whom  the  hostile  scrutiny  of  all  about  her  was 
now  directed.  To  make  matters  worse,  there  were  found 
in  a  corner  of  the  convent  some  objects  —  but  of  what 
nature  I  do  not  know  —  which  in  the  common  opinion 
seemed  to  set  the  seal  upon  this  supposition.  For  her 
adversary  was  now  compelled  to  resort  to  a  new 
stratagem  by  which  to  encompass  Eustochia's  destruc- 
tion. 

Without  listening  to  her  protestations  of  her  innocence, 
the  community  decided  that  Eustochia  was  guilty  of  the 
crimes  that  their  imaginations,  stimulated  by  the  tempter, 
imputed  to  her;  she  was  imprisoned  in  a  dark  cell  far  from 

258 


EUSTOCHIA 

those  of  her  sisters,  and  there  began  to  be  talk  of  her  being 
hanged  for  sacrilege  and  magic  and  —  should  the  Abbess 
die  —  for  murder  as  well !  Soon  the  town  of  Padua  was 
all  agog  with  the  news  that  the  seemingly  pious  Eustochia 
was  imprisoned  on  these  charges  and  the  people  flocked 
about  the  gates  of  the  convent  clamouring  for  her  to  be 
delivered  to  them  that  they  might  burn  her  at  the  stake 
and  purify  their  city  of  her  being. 

And,  all  the  while,  Eustochia  sat  alone  in  the  dark  and 
narrow  cell  with  only  her  enemy,  as  it  seemed  to  her, 
for  company,  despised  and  hated  and  abandoned  of  all 
living  things;  tortured  in  body  and  mind,  her  days  and 
nights  were  spent  in  unutterable  desolation,  while,  as  she 
afterwards  related,  her  soul  was  unceasingly  attacked  by 
the  evil  spirit  with  every  imaginable  temptation  to  im- 
purity and  despair.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  she  could 
say  with  Abraham  that  she  had  hoped  against  hope.  The 
very  solitude  and  silence  of  her  prison  provided  her  with 
the  opportunity  she  so  needed  of  satisfying  her  supreme 
desire  for  prayer.  No  books  were  allowed  her,  but  she 
found  consolation  in  reciting  over  and  over  again  such 
psalms  as  she  knew  by  heart.  She  had  taught  herself 
the  five  canticles  of  which  the  first  letters  form  the  name 
of  Mary  —  Magnificat,  Ad  Dominum,  Retribue  servo 
tuo,  Judica  me,  Detis,  Ad  te  levavi  —  to  each  of  which 
she  added  an  anthem  formed  from  the  same  letters  — 
Missus  est,  Assumpta  est,  Rubum,  In  odorem,  Ave 
Maria,  ending  with  the  Interveniat.  Thus  Eustochia  in 
her  gloomy  prison  was  as  a  lonely  dove  in  its  nest,  weep- 
ing and  sighing,  not  with  impatience,  but  with  Divine  love, 
unceasingly  tempted  by  the  Devil  and  as  unceasingly  de- 
feating him  by  her  sweetness. 

At  long  length  her  confessor  obtained  access  to  Eusto- 

259 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

chia ;  whereupon  the  demon  to  whom  power  was  permit- 
ted over  her  body  spoke  by  her  lips  and  lyingly  confessed 
that  she  had  been  guilty  of  the  crimes  attributed  to  her. 
This  took  place  in  the  presence  of  several  of  the  nuns 
who  were  present  at  Father  Salicario's  interview  with  her; 
the  priest  was  thunderstruck  and  embarrassed  by  this  ad- 
mission on  Eustochia's  part,  but,  being  persuaded  of  the 
diabolical  influence  at  work  in  the  matter,  he  obtained 
leave  to  speak  with  her  again  on  the  next  day.  This  time 
he  began  the  interview  with  an  exorcism,  as  the  result 
of  which  Eustochia  was  enabled  to  speak  of  her  own 
accord  and  to  tell  him  what  was  truly  in  her  heart  that 
was  so  filled  with  humility  and  charity  as  to  flow  over 
with  them. 

So  strengthened  was  Salicario  in  his  championship  of 
the  girl  that  he  bent  all  his  efforts  to  proving  her  inno- 
cence; moreover,  the  Abbess,  who  was  now  recovering 
from  her  indisposition,  was  equally  inclined  to  a  generous 
view  of  the  case.  Her  desire  was  to  get  rid  of  Eusto- 
chia from  the  convent,  in  the  kindest  manner  possible, 
in  order  to  spare  it  all  further  disorder  and  scandalous 
notoriety  by  reason  of  having  the  afflicted  novice  any 
longer  beneath  its  roof.  With  this  object,  Donna  Gius- 
tina  persuaded  her  brother,  Don  Francesco  Lazzara,  to 
see  Eustochia  and  to  try  to  induce  her  to  withdraw  from 
the  convent  of  San  Prosdocimo;  with  which  request  Don 
Francesco,  a  man  of  rare  integrity  and  uprightness,  com- 
plied and  sought  out  the  possessed  in  her  narrow 
cell. 

Here,  alone  with  Eustochia,  he  put  the  case  ably  and 
kindly  to  her,  urging  her  to  leave  the  convent  —  in 
which,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  it  was  not  the  will  of  Heaven 
that  she  should  remain  —  and  to  return  to  the  world  out- 

260 


EUSTOCHIA 

side  it,  where  he  promised  he  would  undertake  to  provide 
for  her  and  even  to  find  her  a  good  husband.  Since  she 
was  not  yet  tied  to  the  life  of  a  religious  by  any  vows, 
he  concluded,  she  need  have  no  hesitation  in  adopting  a 
course  which  was  not  only  permitted  by  the  Church,  but 
also,  indeed,  absolutely  necessary. 

Eustochia  heard  him  out  in  silence.  Then,  having 
thanked  him  for  his  kindness  to  her,  she  replied: 

"  Do  not  believe  that  I  am  as  unhappy  as  the  world 
seems  to  think  " —  for  in  his  argument  Don  Francesco 
had  spoken  of  what  must  be  her  utter  misery,  both  from 
the  demon  that  had  her  frame  in  thrall  and  from  the  hos- 
tility towards  her  of  the  nuns  themselves,  for  whom  her 
presence  was  an  affliction.  "  My  sufferings  are  for  me 
only  the  caresses  of  my  Celestial  Spouse,  who  permits  the 
wicked  spirit  to  chastise  me,  and  I  am  so  happy  in  them 
that  I  would  not  exchange  them  against  all  the  delights 
of  the  world.  Let  them  continue,  or  even  increase,  they 
do  not  disturb  me.  In  calling  me  to  the  life  of  the  cloister, 
God  did  not  call  me  to  an  existence  of  tranquillity  and 
ease.  If  I  find  my  path  strewn  with  thorns,  it  is  a  sign 
that  that  is  the  path  by  which  He  wishes  to  lead  me  to 
Him  —  for  it  is  the  same  path  that  was  trodden  by  Jesus 
Christ.  My  sisters  here  in  the  convent  look  upon  me,  I 
know,  as  an  outcast;  it  hurts  me,  and  I  have  no  one  but 
myself  to  blame  for  it,  for  I  am  full  of  faults.  Still,  I 
hope  to  correct  myself  in  time  of  my  faults,  and  so  to 
merit  a  better  opinion  from  my  sisters.  I  know,  too,  that 
I  am  a  burden  on  the  convent,  and  that  the  demon  who 
has  possession  of  me  is  an  object  of  horror  to  the  whole 
community;  but  as  I  am  becoming  accustomed  to  his  per- 
secution of  me,  so  will  they  get  over  their  terror  of  him. 
For  the  rest,  as  my  deliverance  from  him  is  not  in  my  own 

261 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

hands,  I  can  only  entreat  them  to  have  compassion  upon 
me." 

On  hearing  these  words,  Don  Francesco  was  amazed 
by  the  courage  and  patience  of  Eustochia ;  completely  won 
over  by  them  to  the  side  of  the  gentle  speaker,  he  could 
find  no  words  sufficient  to  praise  her  constancy  or  to  ex- 
press his  enthusiastic  approval  of  her  resolution  to  cleave 
to  her  vocation.  All  he  suggested  was  that  she  should 
change  her  convent  for  another;  but  this  she  declined 
to  do. 

LThis  interview  with  Don  Francesco  resulted,  ulti- 
mately, in  some  little  amelioration  of  Eustochia's  exist- 
ence; the  Abbess  now  taking  her  part  against  the  rest 
of  the  community,  she  was  permitted  to  leave  the  cell 
(in  which  she  had  been  confined  some  three  months  by 
order  of  the  higher  authorities)  for  the  infirmary,  where 
she  was  to  help  in  tending  the  sick.  She  was  forbidden, 
however,  to  appear  either  in  choir  or  in  church  during 
the  hours  of  service,  or  to  show  herself  in  the  parlour, 
or  to  have  any  relations  of  any  kind  with  the  outside 
world  —  and,  most  especially,  she  was  not  to  speak  to 
any  one,  whosoever,  of  her  sufferings  from  the  demon. 
And  when  she  met  any  of  the  sisters,  they  showed  their 
detestation  of  Eustochia  by  lowering  their  eyes  or  turn- 
ing their  backs  on  her;  nobody  who  could  help  it  came 
near  her,  nobody  spoke  to  her;  for  to  one  and  all  —  the 
chaplain  and  the  Abbess  only  excepted  —  she  was  an  ob- 
ject of  horror  and  of  aversion. 

Through  all  these  trials  nothing  had  been  more  painful 
to  Eustochia  than  the  knowledge  that  the  sisters  some- 
times believed  her  to  be  only  feigning  possession  in  order 
to  obtain  their  sympathy  and  commiseration.  But,  at  this 
point,  it  seemed  as  though  the  evil  spirit  himself  was 

262 


EUSTOCHIA 

determined  to  change  their  mind  in  respect  to  the  reality 
of  his  presence  among  them  by  redoubling  the  fury  of 
his  onslaught  upon  Eustochia ;  thenceforth  invisible  hands 
daily  inflicted  upon  her  the  most  barbarous  violence,  mal- 
treating her  in  a  thousand  ways,  so  as  often  to  bring  her 
within  a  short  distance  of  expiring  from  the  effects  of  it. 
At  times  it  was  as  if  he  had  scourged  her  with  whips 
of  metal;  while,  at  others,  it  seemed  as  though  her  body 
had  been  slashed  with  knives.  At  times,  again,  Eustochia 
was  dragged  along  the  ground  to  the  door  of  the  convent 
as  if  her  foe  were  bent  upon  casting  her  out  from  it  into 
the  street;  and  then  she  would  be  lifted  up  by  an  unseen 
power  into  the  air,  and  let  to  fall,  senseless  and  head 
downward,  upon  the  stone  floor  with  a  crash  —  so  that 
all  wondered  how  it  was  that  she  escaped  without  a  frac- 
tured skull.  Again  and  again  a  deep  puncture  was  made 
by  the  same  unseen  agency  in  the  side  of  her  neck,  caus- 
ing an  extensive  flow  of  blood;  and  once  she  was  carried 
up  on  to  the  tiles  of  the  convent  roof  by  the  invisible 
power  and  held  suspended  in  the  abyss  over  the  street 
below,  in  the  sight  of  the  whole  community,  that  cried 
aloud  upon  Heaven  to  protect  her.  And  not  until  the 
chaplain  came,  to  command  the  evil  spirit  that  it  should 
bring  Eustochia  down  immediately  without  hurting  her, 
was  she  restored  in  safety  to  her  sisters,  who  by  this  time 
were  completely  cured  of  their  former  disbelief. 

But  of  all  these  manifestations  of  unearthly  violence 
towards  Eustochia,  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  was  one 
that  occurred  in  the  presence  of  her  confessor,  that  same 
Father  Salicario,  who  afterwards  bore  testimony  of  it. 
One  day,  as  he  was  conversing  with  her,  a  large  kitchen 
knife,  lying  on  a  table  nearby,  rose  up  suddenly  of  itself 
and  struck  Eustochia  upon  her  breast,  transfixing  her  habit 

263 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

over  which  the  blood  ran  out  in  streams,  the  while  a  voice 
cried: 

"  If  you  do  not  give  yourself  to  me,  I  will  enlarge 
the  wound  until  your  heart  is  visible !  " 

"  So  much  the  better,"  gasped  Eustochia,  as  she  stag- 
gered to  the  table  and  leaned  upon  it  for  support.  "  For, 
if  you  do,  you  will  first  have  to  write  the  holy  name  of 
Jesus  upon  my  breast.  .  .  ." 

Which  thing  Father  Salicario  laid  it  upon  the  evil  spirit 
that  it  should  do  according  as  Eustochia  had  said;  and 
a  few  years  later,  when  they  were  preparing  her  dead 
body  for  its  resting-place,  the  nuns,  to  their  delight 
and  great  wonder,  found  the  Holy  Name  cut  deep 
into  the  flesh  over  the  region  of  Eustochia's  loving 
heart. 

After  four  years  of  her  terrible  novitiate,  during  which 
she  had  never  ceased,  in  spite  of  all  their  unconcealed 
antipathy  with  its  constant  slights  and  affronts,  to  love 
her  sister  nuns  and  to  venerate  them  as  her  betters,  Eusto- 
chia was  now,  at  length,  conquering  their  dislike  of  her 
and  acquiring  even  something  of  their  esteem  by  the  sub- 
lime perfection  of  her  bearing.  Of  this  improvement  in 
their  feelings  towards  her  they  gave  proof  in  admitting 
Eustochia  to  the  number  of  professed  nuns  on  March 
25>  H^S,  for  which  favour  she  was  more  than  grateful. 
On  that  day,  therefore,  she  made  her  first  vows,  kneeling 
before  Donna  Giustina  in  the  chapel  and  having  in  her 
hands  the  written  formula  which,  signed  by  Eustochia 
herself,  is  sacredly  preserved  among  the  treasures  of  her 
order. 

From  that  day  forth  Eustochia  gave  herself  up  entirely 
to  prayer  and  meditation,  neither  appearing  in  the  parlour 
nor  even  speaking  to  any  of  the  sisters,  except  only  when 

264 


EUSTOCHIA 

absolutely  necessary.  And  the  demon  never  ceased  from 
tormenting  her  daily  and  in  many  ways;  but  without  being 
able  to  disturb  the  heavenly  serenity  of  her. 

Thus  Eustochia  entered  upon  her  twenty-third  year, 
and  the  time  was  come  (in  accordance  with  the  custom 
in  convents  of  those  days)  for  her  to  make  her  final  vows 
and  to  take  the  veil.  This  she  did  at  the  hands  of  the 
chaplain  —  being  confined  by  her  extreme,  increasing 
weakness  to  her  bed  —  on  September  14,  1467,  the  feast 
of  the  Exaltation  of  the  Cross.  At  this  time  the  com- 
munity, now  so  altered  in  its  sentiments  towards  Eusto- 
chia, was  in  fear  of  soon  losing  her  from  its  midst,  so 
exhausted  and  emaciated  was  she  in  consequence  of  her 
persecution  by  the  spirit  that  possessed  her;  but,  to  the 
general  astonishment,  she  proceeded  to  recover  rapidly 
and,  a  week  after  her  reception  of  the  veil  almost  "  in 
articulo  mortis,"  Eustochia  was  once  more  well  enough  to 
go  to  church  and  there  to  repeat  her  vows  in  public. 

From  being  despised  and  shunned  by  all  as  a  sorceress 
and  supposed  murderess,  an  object  of  horror  and  suspi- 
cion not  only  to  the  inmates  of  the  convent  but  to  the 
townspeople  of  Padua  as  well,  Eustochia  was  now  the 
glory  of  her  convent  and  the  model  of  her  sisters  in  it; 
the  whole  town  joined  them  in  extolling  her  constancy  in 
affliction  and  in  doing  honour  to  her  sanctity. 

So  much  for  the  judgments  of  this  world! 

As  for  Eustochia  herself,  she  remained  the  same 
through  good  and  evil  report.  From  her  cell  where  she 
passed  her  time  there  floated  out  now  and  again  a  burst 
of  golden  song  in  praise  of  God,  so  tender  and  sweet 
as  to  ravish  the  hearts  of  those  that  heard  her;  on  these 
occasions  the  other  nuns  thought  of  her  rather  as  an 
angel  than  a  human  being.  It  was  during  this  last  phase 

265 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

of  her  life  that  there  was  celebrated  at  Venice  the  mar- 
riage of  Caterina  Cornaro  with  James,  the  King  of 
Cyprus.  The  report  of  the  splendours  in  connection  with 
this  wedding  was  brought  to  Padua,  where  for  many 
days  there  was  talk  of  little  else.  But  "  I  would  not  ex- 
change my  pains  and  dolours  against  all  the  pomp  of 
them,"  remarked  Eustochia  quietly.  To  such  a  point  of 
virtue  had  she  attained  that  she  was  only  afraid  lest 
Heaven  should  order  the  Devil  to  leave  her  in  peace  - 
and  so  she  might  be  in  danger  of  losing  her  humility. 
At  this  time  she  ate  only  once  a  day,  and  on  two  days 
of  each  week  abstained  altogether  from  food  of  any 
kind. 

Towards  the  end  the  Demon,  despairing  almost  of  her, 
turned  his  activities  to  Father  Salicario,  whom  he  con- 
trived to  inspire  with  the  strongest  personal  dislike  for 
Eustochia.  This  design,  however,  of  separating  her  from 
the  kind  friend  of  whose  services  she  felt  herself  to  be 
hourly  more  in  need,  Eustochia  defeated  by  means  of 
commending  her  need  to  the  Mother  of  God  and  of 
reciting  a  hundred  times  the  "  Ave  Maria,"  the  result  of 
which  was  always  to  bring  the  chaplain  to  her.  As  Fa- 
ther Salicario  afterward  testified  to  many,  he  felt  himself 
compelled  by  an  irresistible  force  to  go  to  her  at  such 
times,  his  own  disinclination  notwithstanding. 

It  was  not  until  eleven  days  before  Eustochia's  death,  at 
the  feast  of  the  Purification,  that  the  evil  spirit  seemed  to 
have  been  commanded  to  desist  from  doing  bodily  vio- 
lence upon  her;  and  now  he  redoubled  his  efforts  to  gain 
possession  of  her  soul.  A  week  before  she  died  she  re- 
ceived the  last  Sacraments,  which  were  administered  to 
her  in  church  —  to  the  general  astonishment  —  in  view  of 
her  feeble  condition.  Having  returned  to  her  bed  of  pain, 

266 


EUSTOCHIA 

Eustochia  became  absorbed  in  heavenly  contemplation; 
when,  all  at  once,  she  was  attacked  by  a  legion  of  hateful 
fancies,  and  there  passed  before  her  dying  eyes  a  train 
of  spectral  revellings  —  from  dances,  feastings,  and  wed- 
ding banquets  to  other  and  darker  things  such  as  she  had 
never  given  a  thought  to  in  the  days  of  her  youth  and 
health.  All  she  told  to  her  friend,  a  certain  Sister  Eu- 
phrasia,  remarking  how  the  human  soul  is  liable  to  such 
sensual  temptations  even  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  add- 
ing her  conviction  that  God  does  not  abandon  His  crea- 
tures in  their  supreme  struggle. 

And  so  the  hour  of  her  death  —  which  she  had  fore- 
told —  drew  nigh  for  Eustochia.  On  the  day  —  a  Sun- 
day—  before  that  appointed  from  the  beginning  of  all 
time  for  her  departure  out  of  this  life,  Eustochia  made 
her  confession  and  received  absolution  for  the  last  time; 
then,  begging  Euphrasia  to  keep  watch  with  her  in  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow,  the  little  servant  of  God  waited  pa- 
tiently for  the  end. 

The  last  night  of  Eustochia's  life,  that  of  Sunday, 
February  12-13,  I469,  drew  on  during  some  hours  in 
utter  stillness  for  Euphrasia,  as  she  sat  beside  the  bed 
in  the  dimly  lit  cell.  Suddenly,  towards  morning,  she 
became  conscious  of  a  disquieting,  stealthy  sound,  as  of 
a  man  climbing  up  the  outer  wall  of  the  convent  towards 
the  roof  —  an  altogether  unbelievable  sound  to  Eu- 
phrasia's  ears,  considering  the  physical  impossibility  of 
such  a  thing.  Nevertheless,  as  she  listened,  incredulous 
yet  affrighted,  the  slow  dragging  of  hands  and  feet  over 
the  smooth  surface  of  the  wall  was  distinctly  audible  to 
her;  until,  at  last,  the  noises  passed  away  into  the  silence 
overhead,  and  all  was  quiet  once  more,  save  for  the  la- 
boured breathing  of  the  form  on  the  bed. 

267 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

And  then  Euphrasia's  eyes  fell  to  the  face  of  Eusto- 
chia,  who  was  sleeping,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  smiling, 
and  all  luminous  with  a  kind  of  unearthly  brightness;  so 
she  understood  that  what  she  had  heard  was  the  departure 
of  the  evil  spirit  from  the  body  of  her  whom  he  had  been 
permitted  for  so  long  to  torment.  These  sounds  were 
audible  to  all  in  the  convent,  by  whom,  and  by  Father 
Salicario,  they  were  held  to  be  those  of  the  demon's  re- 
luctant flight. 

In  the  morning,  the  Abbess  with  her  nuns  came,  at  her 
request,  to  say  farewell  to  Eustochia,  kneeling  about  the 
bed  in  prayer  for  her,  the  while  she  thanked  them,  as  she 
expressed  it,  "  for  all  your  long-suffering  and  patience 
with  me."  After  which  she  still  found  strength  to  ask 
their  "  pardon  for  all  the  bad  examples  I  have  given  you 
and  all  the  inconvenience  and  embarrassment  of  having 
me  among  you." 

Then,  having  bidden  them  "  Arrwederci  in  Cielo"  so 
affectionately  as  to  wring  the  hearts  of  all  who  heard  her, 
Eustochia,  folding  her  hands  upon  her  breast,  fell  asleep 
with  a  smile.  Nor  was  it  until  some  time  had  elapsed 
that  they  could  bring  themselves  to  believe  that  she  was 
really  dead. 

When  Eustochia  was  laid  out  in  the  chapel,  all  the 
town  flocked  to  do  honour  to  the  body,  which,  as  we  are 
told,  exhaled  a  very  sweet  and  noticeable  fragrance.  She 
was  first  buried  in  the  cloister  of  the  convent,  where  her 
remains  were  disinterred  on  November  16,  1472,  in  the 
presence  of  many  witnesses,  who  testified  to  it  that  the 
body  was  still  precisely  as  it  had  been  in  the  moment  of 
her  death,  perfectly  incorrupt  and  supple  and  deliciously 
fragrant.  In  1475,  however,  the  coffin  was  transferred  to 
the  church  and  a  marble  monument  raised  above  her 

268 


EUSTOCHIA 

resting-place;  meanwhile,  as  though  to  mark  the  spot  for- 
merly hallowed  by  being  the  depository  of  Eustochia's 
body,  a  spring  of  purest  water  burst  up  out  of  her  first 
grave  in  the  cloister;  which  spring  became  a  famous  resort 
for  the  sick,  of  whom  multitudes  recovered  their  health 
by  drinking  of  it. 


269 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

Personality  of  Italian  Towns — Verona — Its  History — Early  Years — Ez- 
zelino  da  Romano,  Unique  in  Cruelty — Wholesale  Execution  and  Im- 
prisonment— Pope  Alexander  IV  Assails  the  Monster — Ezzelino 
Wounded  and  Captured — Suicide — New  Line  of  Despots — Cangrande 
della  Scala — Dante  and  Petrarch — Further  Lords  of  Verona — Later 
History — The  Drei  Kaiser  Bund. 

ALMOST  every  ancient  Italian  town  possesses  some 
distinctive  attribute  of  its  own,  whether  of  pure 
beauty  or  grandeur  or  sanctity;  or,  else,  of  mere  gentle 
charm,  gladsome  or  melancholy,  such  as  Sorrento  or 
Ravenna;  but  of  them  all  perhaps  the  most  richly  en- 
dowed —  Rome  itself  alone  excepted  —  with  stirring 
memories  of  the  men  and  their  deeds,  good  and  bad,  of 
bygone  ages,  is  the  city  of  Verona. 

One  of  the  earliest  —  and  very  possibly,  too,  one  of 
the  best  —  representations  of  Verona  is  to  my  mind  that 
visible  in  the  background  of  the  painting  of  the  deposi- 
tion of  our  Saviour  from  the  cross,  by  Paolo  Morando, 
better  known  as  Cavazzola.  In  that  picture  the  artist 
gives  us  a  wonderfully  vivid  impression  of  his  native 
town,  as  a  pile  of  old  masonry  incasing  a  hill  that  rises 
up  from  the  bank  of  a  river  —  the  Adige  —  against  the 
cold  clear  sky  of  an  evening  of  spring.  This  picture 
was  painted  about  1520,  a  few  years  after  the  restoration 
of  Verona  to  the  Venetian  Government  by  Francis  I  of 
France,  after  wresting  it  from  the  Emperor  of  Germany, 
Maximilian  of  Hapsburg.  Thenceforth  its  history  was 

270 


A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

comparatively  uneventful,  that  of  an  appanage  of  Venice, 
until  the  Napoleonic  era,  when  the  French  took  the  town, 
afterwards  sharing  it  for  a  space  with  the  Austrians, 
1798-1800.  From  then  on  the  allegiance  of  Verona  was 
claimed  —  and  enacted  —  in  turn  by  France  and  Austria 
until  it  became  part  of  the  King  of  Sardinia's  territories 
after  the  peace  of  Nikolsburg  in  1866. 

But  it  is  in  the  history  of  Verona's  earlier  days  that 
we  find  her  greatest  glories  side  by  side  with  her  greatest 
suffering,  from  the  nightmare  of  the  attempt  upon  her 
sovereignty  by  Ezzelino  da  Romano  to  the  "  Golden 
Age  "  of  the  Scaligeri. 

Ezzelino,  hereditary  lord  of  Bassano,  was  one  of  the 
leaders  of  the  party  of  the  Ghibellines  against  the 
Guelphs,  and  a  supporter  of  the  Hohenstaufens  in  their 
unavailing  contest  for  the  supremacy  in  Italy.  Never 
has  any  human  being  earned  so  dark  a  character  for  cru- 
elty as  Ezzelino;  never,  until  our  own  day,  in  which 
(1906)  the  "  Viedomosti  "  of  Moscow  suggested  the 
massacre  of  a  million  people  as  the  means  of  quieting  the 
Russian  revolution,  has  any  one  aspired  to  rival  Ezze- 
lino's  record  as  a  slayer  of  unarmed  people.  Beside  this 
man,  such  small  fry  as  Cromwell,  Gilles  de  Retz,  and  their 
kind  sink  into  insignificance.  The  Florentine  historian, 
Villani,  describes  Ezzelino  as  "  the  crudest  and  most  ter- 
rific tyrant  that  ever  existed  among  Christians.  By  his 
might  and  tyranny  he  lorded  it  for  a  long  time  over 
the  March  of  Treviso  and  the  town  of  Padua  and  a  great 
part  of  Lombardy.  He  made  away  with  a  fearful  part 
of  the  citizens  of  Padua,  and  blinded  a  great  number, 
even  of  the  best  and  noblest  among  them,  taking  away 
their  possessions  and  sending  them  adrift  to  beg  through 
the  world.  And  many  others  by  divers  torments  and  mar- 

271 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

tyrdoms  he  put  to  death,  and  in  one  hour  caused  eleven 
thousand  Paduans  to  be  burnt." 

Ezzelino's  principal  opponent  in  the  city  of  Verona 
and  the  surrounding  country  was  the  family  of  San 
Bonifacio,  who  headed  the  party  of  the  Guelphs.  In 
truth,  Ezzelino  himself  would  appear  to  have  been  sim- 
ply a  madman,  haematomaniac;  although,  at  the  same 
time,  he  showed  energy,  resolution,  and  shrewdness  alto- 
gether beyond  the  ordinary,  so  that  the  Emperor  Fred- 
erick made  him  his  Vicar  in  the  north  of  Italy.  One  city 
after  another  found  itself  compelled  to  submit  to  Ez- 
zelino; Verona,  Vicenza,  Padua,  Feltre,  and  Belluno, 
together  with  many  other  small  towns  and  strong  places, 
succumbed  to  him.  A  small,  wiry  man  and  pale,  with 
hair,  as  we  are  told  by  a  contemporary,  "  between  the 
white  and  the  red,"  Ezzelino's  very  look  is  said  to  have 
struck  terror  into  the  majority  of  those  who  beheld  him. 
The  only  good  deed  recorded  of  him  was  his  interfering 
to  put  a  stop  to  the  sack  of  Vicenza  in  1236,  when,  in 
company  with  his  master,  the  Emperor,  he  wrested  the 
city  from  the  Guelphs.  Ezzelino's  object  in  doing  this 
seems  to  have  been  less  one,  however,  of  humanity  than 
that  of  acquiring  for  himself  the  gratitude  of  the  citi- 
zens whom  he  intended  to  make  ultimately  his  own  sub- 
jects. As  an  instance  of  the  discipline  maintained  by  him, 
it  is  told  that,  on  this  occasion,  on  finding  his  orders 
disobeyed  by  a  captain  of  German  "  Landsknechts,"  he 
cut  the  man  down  on  the  spot,  so  that  the  rest  of  the 
soldiery  were  awed  into  good  behaviour.  No  sooner, 
however,  had  they  departed  from  it  than  Ezzelino,  as 
the  Imperial  Commissary  of  the  town,  proceeded  to  set 
up  a  special  tribunal  on  his  own  account,  by  means  of 
which  he  speedily  put  to  death  some  two  thousand  citi- 

272 


A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

zens  of  Padua  that  he  found  there,  in  revenge  for  the 
action  of  their  native  city  in  having  declared  against  him 
a  short  while  previously.  Here,  too,  as  also  at  Verona, 
many  nobles  were  burned  in  the  public  square,  after  hav- 
ing been  dragged  for  miles  at  a  horse's  tail. 

It  was  not  until  the  following  year — 1237  —  that 
Ezzelino  succeeded  in  reducing  Padua  itself  to  submis- 
sion. The  Paduans  he  hated  even  more  venomously  than 
he  hated  the  rest  of  mankind,  because  of  their  long  re- 
sistance to  him;  for  Padua,  the  City  of  Saint  Anthony, 
had  all  along  been  a  stronghold  of  the  Guelph  party;  that 
is  to  say,  of  the  Church,  in  her  struggle  for  civilisation 
and  humanity,  against  the  Emperor  and  his  barons  who 
were  opposed  to  any  lessening  of  their  power  by  the  erec- 
tion of  popular  institutions.  The  wars  between  the 
Guelphs  and  their  opponents,  the  Ghibellines,  began  in 
the  Eleventh  Century  and  lasted  for  some  four  hundred 
years;  during  which  period  innumerable  despots  ruled 
over  various  cities  and  districts  in  Italy,  putting  to  death 
countless  thousands  of  their  fellow-creatures  and,  very 
frequently,  meeting  their  own  end  at  the  hand  of  mur- 
derers either  by  dagger  or  poison.  And,  of  them  all, 
Ezzelino  was  the  most  universally  execrated  by  reason 
of  his  monstrous  cruelty. 

On  this  occasion  of  his  capturing  Padua,  therefore, 
Ezzelino  indulged  his  love  of  bloodshed  without  stint. 
It  was  on  this  occasion  that  nearly  eleven  thousand  — 
ten  thousand  and  eight  hundred,  to  be  exact  —  Paduan 
soldiers  were  burned  by  his  orders.  The  chronicler  says 
that  they  were  burned  "  in  an  hour  " ;  but  that  is  obvi- 
ously impossible.  I  doubt  whether  Ezzelino,  in  those 
earlier  stages  of  his  career,  ever  had  more  than  from 
twenty  to  twenty-eight  thousand  men  under  his  command 

273 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

at  once;  and  so  it  is  probable  that  the  executions  were 
continued  during  a  number  of  days  or,  even,  of  weeks. 
At  the  same  time  he  built  no  less  than  eight  prisons  in 
Padua,  two  of  which  held  each  three  hundred  prisoners; 
and  albeit  the  executioners  were  never  idle,  yet  those 
prisons  were  always  kept  full. 

It  is  said  that  thousands  perished  in  these  and  similar 
dungeons  of  Ezzelino  at  Verona,  Vicenza,  and  Cittadella. 
The  prisoners  included  young  boys  and  girls,  and  also  lit- 
tle children,  with  whom  were  huddled  grown  men  and 
women  of  all  ages  and  conditions;  many  died  from  want 
of  air,  and  many  went  mad  and  attacked  their  miserable 
companions.  And  whenever  any  one  died  in  prison,  his 
or  her  body  was  left  there  to  rot  among  the  living  until 
the  next  cleaning  of  the  prison  —  which  only  took  place 
at  regular  intervals  of  three  months. 

One  of  Ezzelino's  most  detestable  exploits  was  achieved 
on  his  capture  of  Friola,  when  he  caused  the  entire  popu- 
lation to  have  their  eyes  put  out,  and  their  noses  and  legs 
cut  off,  and  then  to  be  thrown  out  beyond  the  town  in  still 
living  heaps  of  bodies. 

And  once  he  came  nearly  to  a  premature  end,  when 
one  of  the  House  of  Monticoli,  whom  he  had  insulted, 
sprang  upon  him  and  so  tore  his  face  and  neck  with 
teeth  and  nails  that  Ezzelino  bore  the  marks  of  them 
for  the  rest  of  his  days;  so  frightful,  too,  were  the  tor- 
tures inflicted  by  Ezzelino  upon  his  victims  that  one  of 
them  once  —  a  certain  man  —  fearing  lest  his  sufferings 
might  make  him  betray  his  friends,  bit  out  his  tongue 
and  spat  it  into  the  face  of  Ezzelino,  who  was  watching 
him  being  fastened  to  the  rack.  His  own  father-in-law, 
the  father  of  his  third  wife,  Beatrice  Maltraversi  —  of 
the  same  house,  I  take  it,  as  the  English  family  of 

274 


A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

Maltravcrs  —  he  had  thrown  into  prison  and  starved  to 
death. 

In  the  year  1255,  however,  Pope  Alexander  IV  issued 
Letters  of  Crusade  against  the  monster  —  Ezzelino  had 
already  long  before  been  laid  under  the  ban  of  Major 
Excommunication  —  and  gave  the  Papal  Benediction  to 
all  who  joined  themselves  to  the  forces  preparing  to  deal 
with  that  enemy  of  the  human  race.  The  Archbishop  of 
Ravenna  was  appointed  to  the  chief  command  and  he 
was  soon  joined  by  the  troops  of  Venice  and  of  Este. 
But  the  victory  was  not  to  be  an  easy  one;  for  three  whole 
years  the  contending  forces  wrestled  with  each  other  in 
Lombardy  and  Venetia,  until  Ezzelino  was  at  last  de- 
feated and  captured,  on  September  16,  1259,  in  a  battle 
on  the  banks  of  the  Adda.  Thence  he  was  taken,  desper- 
ately wounded,  to  the  castle  of  Soncino  for  safekeeping, 
with  the  intention  of  bringing  him  to  trial  for  his  enormi- 
ties; a  design  frustrated  by  Ezzelino  himself,  a  few  days 
later,  when,  in  a  fit  of  rage  and  despair,  he  tore  the  band- 
ages from  his  wounds  and  so  bled  to  death. 

The  downfall  of- Ezzelino  it  was  that  ushered  in  the 
advent  of  a  nobler  race  of  despots  —  the  Scaligeri  —  in 
the  person  of  Mastino  della  Scala,  who  was  elected  Chief 
Magistrate  of  Verona  by  the  people  on  learning  the  glad 
news  of  Ezzelino's  death;  and,  in  1262,  they  chose  him 
to  be  "  Chief  of  the  People."  Mastino  was  a  Ghibelline, 
however,  and  his  popularity  could  not  endure  for  ever 
among  a  populace  that  had  already  suffered  so  much 
from  its  subjection  to  that  party.  On  October  26,  1277, 
Mastino  was  stabbed,  together  with  his  friend  Antonio 
Nogarola,  near  his  own  house;  and  to  him  succeeded  his 
brother  Alberto,  who  was  the  first  of  the  Scaligeri  to 
place  the  family  on  a  semi-royal  footing  by  means  of  his 

275 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

conquests  and  the  matrimonial  alliances  arranged  by  him 
for  his  two  eldest  sons,  Bartolomeo  and  Alboino.  It  was 
the  youngest,  however,  of  the  nephews  of  the  murdered 
Mastino,  Cangrande  della  Scala,  who  was  to  prove  him- 
self the  greatest  of  them  all.  On  the  death  of  Bartolo- 
meo, the  eldest  of  the  brothers,  Alboino  assumed  the  reins 
of  government  in  Verona,  and  called  in  Cangrande  to 
assist  him. 

Cangrande  — "  The  Great  Dog  " —  was  the  very 
"  beau-ideal  "  of  a  despot;  as  splendid  in  his  person  and 
mind  as  in  his  disposition  and  his  victories,  his  is  one 
of  the  most  striking  figures  of  the  Middle  Ages.  As 
Boccaccio  says  of  him,  he  was  "  one  of  the  most  noted 
and  magnificent  lords  known  in  Italy  since  the  time  of 
Frederick  II,"  and  the  Guelph  historian  Villani  styles 
him  "  the  greatest  tyrant  and  the  richest  and  most  power- 
ful prince  that  has  been  in  Lombardy  since  Ezzelino  da 
Romano";  whilst  Petrarch  styles  Cangrande  "the  con- 
soler of  the  houseless  and  the  afflicted,"  in  commemora- 
tion of  Cangrande's  kindness  to  Dante  when  the  latter 
was  exiled  from  Florence,  as  well  as  of  the  hospitable 
treatment  accorded  to  other  unfortunates  by  the  gener- 
osity of  "  The  Dog."  Among  these  guests  of  Cangrande 
were  included  many  of  his  prisoners  of  war,  such  as 
Giacomo  da  Carraraam  and  Albertino  da  Mussato,  whom 
he  treated  with  all  the  courtesy  and  consideration  shown 
by  him  to  his  voluntary  guests,  such  as  Dante  himself 
and  Spinetta  Malaspina. 

In  spite,  however,  of  Dante's  very  real  gratitude  to 
Cangrande,  there  grew  up  a  coldness  between  them  which 
seems  to  have  been  mainly  brought  about  by  Dante's  un- 
sociable and  critical  temperament.  It  was  no  less  experi- 
enced a  judge  of  men  and  of  the  society  of  his  time  than 

276 


A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

Petrarch  who  writes  of  Dante  and  his  relations  with 
Cangrande : 

'When  banished  from  his  country  he  (Dante)  re- 
sided at  the  court  of  Cangrande,  where  the  afflicted  uni- 
versally found  consolation  and  an  asylum.  He  was  at 
first  held  in  much  honour  by  the  Dog  (dal  Cane),  but 
afterwards  he  by  degrees  fell  out  of  favour,  and  day  by 
day  pleased  less  that  lord.  Actors  and  parasites  of  every 
description  used  to  be  collected  together  at  the  same  ban- 
quet; one  of  these,  most  impudent  in  his  words  and  in 
his  obscene  gestures,  obtained  much  importance  and  fa- 
vour with  many.  The  Dog,  suspecting  that  Dante  dis- 
liked this,  called  the  man  before  him,  and,  having  greatly 
praised  him  to  our  poet,  said:  '  I  wonder  how  it  is  that 
this  silly  fellow  should  know  how  to  please  all,  and  that 
thou  canst  not,  who  art  said  to  be  so  wise.'  Dante  an- 
swered: '  Thou  wouldst  not  wonder  if  thou  knewest  that 
friendship  is  founded  on  similarity  of  habits  and  disposi- 
tion.' It  is  also  related  that  at  his  table,  which  was 
indiscriminately  hospitable,  where  buffoons  sat  down  with 
Dante,  and  where  jests  passed  which  must  have  been 
repulsive  to  every  person  of  refinement,  but  disgraceful 
when  uttered  by  the  superior  in  rank  to  his  inferior,  a 
boy  was  once  concealed  under  the  table,  who,  collecting 
the  bones  that  were  thrown  there  by  the  guests,  according 
to  the  custom  of  those  times,  heaped  them  up  at  Dante's 
feet.  When  the  tables  were  removed,  the  great  heap 
appearing,  the  Dog  pretended  to  show  great  astonish- 
ment and  said,  "  Certainly  Dante  is  a  great  devourer  of 
meat.'  To  which  Dante  readily  replied,  '  My  Lord,  if  / 
were  the  Dog,  you  would  not  see  so  many  bones  '-  -'  Se 
fosse  io  il  Can  non  si  vedrebbe  tante  osse,' —  meaning 
that,  if  he  had  been  Cangrande,  he  would  have  had  fewer 
and  choicer  companions  at  his  table. 

"  From  the  strength  and  glory  of  his  position  in  Lom- 
bardy,  Cangrande  would  appear  to  have  been  designated 
by  Dante  as  the  one  man  fitted  to  unite  the  entire  penin- 
sula of  Italy  under  his  own  rule.  This  belief  of  Dante's, 

277 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

according  to  many  of  his  commentators,  is  expressed  in 
what  has  become  known  as  the  '  Veltro  prophecy  '  in  the 
first  Canto  of  the  '  Inferno,'  the  passage  where  the  poet, 
finding  his  way  barred  by  the  leopard  — '  quella  fera  alia 
gaietta  pelle,' —  is  saved  from  it  by  the  shade  of  Virgil, 
who  explains  to  him  the  pure  character  of  the  heart  which, 
as  he  says,  '  is  but  the  hungrier  after  banqueting.' 

"  And  then  the  shade  continues : 

"  '  Many  are  the  animals  with  which  this  beast  doth 
mate,  and  there  shall  yet  be  others  still,  until  the  grey- 
hound comes  that  is  to  make  the  beast  die  painfully.  He 
(the  greyhound)  shall  not  feed  on  land  or  gold,  but  on 
wisdom  and  virtue  and  love.  And  his  country  shall  lie 
between  Feltro  and  Feltro;  and  he  shall  be  the  saviour 
of  this  lowly  Italy.' 

"  And  again,  at  perhaps  the  most  disputed  passage  of 
the  entire  '  Divina  Commedia  '  (Purgatorio,  Canto 
XXXIII,  line  46),  Dante  speaks  of  a  mysterious  per- 
sonage who  is  to  do  great  things  and  of  whom  he  speaks 
as  '  A  five  hundred  and  ten  and  five  sent  by  God  ' — '  Un 
cinquecento  diece  e  cinque,  messo  di  Dio  ' —  which  nu- 
merals, as  is  held  by  many,  have  reference  to  no  other 
than  Cangrande  himself,  and  that  the  DXV  of  these  nu- 
merals and  the  '  Veltro  '  of  the  former  prophecy  are  only 
meant  to  signify  one  and  the  same  person  —  the  lord  of 
Verona. 

"And,  in  fact,  Cangrande  became  in  1313,  on  the 
death  of  Emperor  Henry  of  Luxembourg,  the  natural 
leader  of  the  Ghibellines  and  the  mainstay  of  their  hopes 
in  Italy  —  for  his  was  an  united  and  a  single  authority 
in  his  dominions,  whereas  the  rule  of  the  Visconti  in  Milan 
—  the  other  great  Ghibelline  centre  —  was  as  yet  but 
feeble  by  comparison  and  very  uncertain.  From  then 
until  his  death  Cangrande  devoted  himself  to  furthering 
his  pet  project  of  a  federation  of  Italian  States  under 
his  own  leadership  —  but  without  success.  He  came  to 
his  end  at  the  untimely  age  of  thirty-eight,  July  22,  1329, 
as  the  effect,  according  to  Mr.  Ruskin,  of  '  eating  apples 
when  he  was  too  hot.'  By  then  Cangrande  had  compelled 

278 


A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

nine  other  cities  besides  Verona  to  pay  yearly  tribute  to 
him  as  their  sovereign  lord  —  Padua,  Vicenza,  Treviso, 
Brescia,  Feltre,  Belluno,  Parma,  Modena,  and  Lucca  — 
their  collected  addition  to  his  revenues  being,  as  Villani 
said,  '  more  than  70,000  florins  of  gold,  which  no  other 
Christian  King  possesses,  unless  it  be  the  King  of 
France.' ' 

After  Cangrande's  demise,  however,  the  lordship  of  his 
dominions  fell  into  very  different  hands.  He  was  suc- 
ceeded by  his  two  nephews,  Mastino  and  Alberto,  of 
whom  the  elder  was  devoured  by  an  insatiable  ambition 
to  extend  his  lordship  still  further  and  to  make  of  it  an 
independent  kingdom  and  the  arbiter  of  Italian  destinies; 
whilst  the  younger,  Alberto,  was  merely  a  man  of  pleas- 
ure. Thus  it  came  about  that  before  long  Mastino  had 
engaged  his  people  in  disputes  with  the  republics  of  Flor- 
ence and  Venice  and  the  clans  of  Este,  Visconti,  and 
Gonzaga;  Alberto,  as  his  subscription  to  the  general  ill- 
will,  having  at  the  same  time  inflicted  an  outrageous 
wrong  upon  the  great  Paduan  house  of  Carrara  in  the 
person  of  one  of  its  women.  So  that  the  Scaligeri  had 
to  contend  with  external  foes  and  with  rebellion  as  well. 
By  the  end  of  1339,  ten  years  after  Cangrande's  death, 
their  dominions  had  been  reduced  to  the  two  cities  of 
Verona  and  Vicenza;  moreover,  Mastino  had  been  ex- 
communicated for  killing  his  uncle's  kinsman,  Bishop  Bar- 
tolomeo  della  Scala,  in  anger  at  some  remonstrance  on 
the  prelate's  part.  His  repentance,  though,  was  sincere 
and  lasting;  for  it  is  said  of  him  that,  after  the  crime, 
he  never  again  suffered  any  living  being  to  look  upon  his 
face,  not  even  allowing  his  wife,  Taddea  de  Carrara,  a 
relative  of  the  lady  injured  by  Alberto,  to  behold  it.  Mrs. 
Wiel,  in  her  brilliant  history  of  Verona,  to  which  famous 

279 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

work  I  would  fain  express  my  immense  obligation,  is  of 
the  opinion  that  this  tradition  may  well  owe  its  origin 
to  the  fact  that  the  armoured  equestrian  statue  of  Mas- 
tino,  over  his  tomb  in  Verona,  is  represented  with  the 
vizor  down,  as  indicating  Mastino's  desire  to  conceal  his 
features  permanently  from  sight. 

But  from  now  on,  for  more  than  forty  years,  murder 
plays  almost  the  chief  part  in  the  chronicle  of  the 
Scaligeri.  After  Mastino  came  his  son,  Cangrande  II, 
who  was  murdered  by  his  younger  brother,  Cansignorio, 
aged  twenty,  with  his  own  hand  on  December  14,  1359. 
Soon  after,  Cansignorio  was  proclaimed,  together  with 
his  own  younger  brother  Alboino,  lord  of  Verona,  but 
soon  Cansignorio  exiled  Alboino  to  Peschiera,  because  he 
was  afraid  of  the  youth's  popularity  with  the  citizens. 
Years  went  by  whilst  Alboino  lay  in  exile  at  Peschiera; 
during  which  years  two  natural  sons,  Bartolomeo  and 
Antonio,  were  born  to  Cansignorio  in  Verona.  Can- 
signorio, however,  was  not  fated  to  live  long,  for  death 
came  to  seek  him  out  in  his  thirty-sixth  year,  but  he  knew 
of  its  certain  coming  some  time  beforehand,  and  faced 
it  resignedly.  But,  even  while  he  was  dying,  the  news 
was  circulated  in  the  streets  of  Verona  that  his  brother 
Alboino  had  suddenly  died  at  Peschiera  —  of  poison,  as 
the  people  declared,  in  order  that  he  might  not  succeed 
to  the  lordship  that  Cansignorio  had  destined  for  his  own 
illegitimate  sons.  But  then  every  death  of  which  the 
cause  was  not  quite  plain  was  ascribed  to  poison  in  those 
days,  so  that  it  seems  only  charitable  to  believe  that  public 
opinion  may  have  been  at  fault  in  its  verdict  upon  the 
death  of  Alboino  della  Scala. 

Cansignorio  himself  died  on  October  19,  1375,  and 
his  sons,  Bartolomeo  and  Antonio,  reigned  for  a  while 

280 


A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

together  in  his  stead.  But  Antonio  was  infected  with 
ambition  to  be  the  sole  ruler  of  Verona;  moreover,  he 
was  jealous  of  the  love  which  all  who  knew  him  bore 
toward  Bartolomeo. 

Now  it  chanced  that  the  latter,  in  the  month  of  July, 
1381,  was  courting  a  beautiful  daughter  of  the  family 
of  Nogarola,  whose  dwelling  stands  in  the  street  of  "  the 
two  Moors,"  not  far  from  the  palace  of  the  Scaligeri. 
Bartolomeo,  though,  was  not  her  only  suitor,  for  he  had 
a  rival  in  the  person  of  a  cadet  of  the  house  of  Malaspina. 
And  Antonio,  seeing  how  the  thing  was,  resolved  to  make 
use  of  this  situation  to  rid  himself  of  Bartolomeo  and  to 
reign  alone  in  Verona.  Accordingly,  on  the  evening  of 
July  12,  1381,  he  hired  a  number  of  "  bravi,"  or  profes- 
sional assassins,  and  concealed  them  in  Bartolomeo's 
apartments  in  the  Palazzo  Scaligeri.  Later  on,  Bartolo- 
meo, who  had  been  hunting,  came  home  attended  by  a 
friend  called  Galvani,  and  they  supped  together,  after 
which  the  two  lay  down  and  fell  asleep;  thereupon  the 
murderers  came  out  from  their  hiding-place  and  killed 
the  sleepers  with  many  blows  of  their  knives,  Bartolomeo 
receiving  as  many  as  twenty-six  stabs,  all  in  front.  Then 
the  "  bravi,"  having  draped  the  bodies  in  black  mantles 
with  hoods  that  they  pulled  over  the  faces  of  them,  car- 
ried them  noiselessly  down  out  of  the  palace  and  through 
the  deserted  streets  to  the  "  piazzetta  "  of  Santa  Cecilia, 
where  they  left  them  at  the  door  of  Palazzo  Nogarola  — 
so  that  all  might  believe  the  murder  to  have  been  the 
work  of  that  family.  And  there  the  dead  Bartolomeo 
and  his  friend  were  found  in  the  morning  by  the  indig- 
nant citizens  of  Verona,  who  had  loved  Bartolomeo  more 
than  they  loved  his  younger  brother. 

But  when  they  came  to  Antonio  with  the  dreadful  news, 

281 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

he  feigned  great  sorrow  and  anger,  and  declared  it  to  be 
his  belief  that  the  Lord  Nogarola,  together  with  young 
Malaspina,  had  committed  the  crime  in  order  to  be  re- 
venged upon  Bartolomeo  della  Scala  for  having  dishon- 
oured the  girl  to  whom,  as  was  well  known,  he  had  been 
paying  court. 

And  then,  that  all  men  might  accept  his  story  for  the 
truth,  Antonio  had  Nogarola  arrested,  with  Malaspina 
and  the  girl  herself,  and  condemned  them  to  be  tortured 
in  order  to  make  them  admit  the  truth  of  his  villainous 
accusation.  But  without  success;  for  not  one  of  the 
three  would  consent  to  confirm  the  lie  in  spite  of  their 
torments,  and  it  is  recorded  that  the  girl  even  expired 
on  the  rack  sooner  than  satisfy  the  demands  of  her 
torturers.  The  fortitude  of  the  victims  now  began  to 
have  its  influence  upon  public  opinion,  which  came  round 
ultimately  to  the  conviction  that  Antonio  himself  had 
caused  his  brother  to  be  assassinated  for  his  own  private 
ends,  a  conviction  that  was  soon  voiced  aloud  wherever 
men  met  together  in  Verona;  so  that  Nogarola  and 
Malaspina  had  to  be  released  and  declared  innocent, 
greatly  to  Antonio's  rage  and  confusion  and  to  the  joy 
of  all  good  men.  Shortly  afterwards,  Antonio  found  an 
opportunity  of  turning  away  the  thoughts  of  his  subjects 
from  these  events,  so  unfavourable  to  himself  and  his 
popularity,  by  ordering  a  series  of  feastings  and  enter- 
tainments on  the  occasion  of  his  marriage  to  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  the  most  foolish  women  of  that  or 
any  other  age  — Samaritana  de  Polenta,  the  daughter  of 
the  neighbouring  despot  of  Ravenna.  Of  Samaritana  it 
is  recorded,  as  an  instance  of  her  folly,  that  she  would 
not  put  on  even  a  pair  of  stockings  unless  they  were  deco- 
rated with  jewels. 

282 


A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

The  festivities  were  held  in  the  great  Arena  and  were 
a  complete  success,  so  far  as  Antonio's  design  of  avert- 
ing the  popular  reprobation  from  himself  was  concerned. 
Nevertheless,  they  were  destined  —  together  with  the 
coming  of  Samaritana  —  to  usher  in  a  period  altogether 
disastrous  to  Antonio's  fortunes,  by  reason  of  the  fatal 
extravagance  that  now  seized  upon  the  administration  and 
court  of  Verona,  and  the  consequent  increase  in  the  taxa- 
tion of  the  people.  Soon,  Antonio  found  himself  com- 
pelled to  engage  in  war  with  his  neighbours  of  Padua, 
much  as  did  Napoleon  III  in  1870  and  with  almost  ex- 
actly the  same  result.  For  the  Veronese  troops,  softened 
by  disuse  and  led  by  incompetent  generals,  suffered  defeat 
after  defeat  at  the  hands  of  their  opponents  under  such 
experts  as  "  Aucua  "  (Sir  John  Hawkwood)  and  Gio- 
vanni d'Azzo;  until  at  length  Antonio,  deserted  by  all 
who  had  once  fawned  upon  him,  fled  from  his  capital 
under  cover  of  a  night  of  November,  1387.  On  the 
next  day  the  town  declared  for  the  Visconti,  the  lords  of 
Milan.  In  the  meanwhile  Antonio  della  Scala  was  mak- 
ing his  way  to  Venice  with  Samaritana  and  their  one  small 
son;  and  there  he  died  in  August  of  the  following  year, 
leaving  his  wife  and  son  to  be  cared  for  by  the  Venetian 
Republic,  which  settled  a  small  annual  pension  upon  them, 
and  so  ended  the  reign  of  the  Scaligeri  over  Verona. 

The  Arena  of  Verona,  above  mentioned,  is  a  very 
ancient  and  very  perfectly  preserved  amphitheatre  in  the 
centre  of  the  town;  so  old  is  it,  indeed,  that  no  man  may 
say  with  certainty  when  it  was  first  erected,  although  there 
seems  little  doubt  but  that  the  Romans  were  the  builders 
of  it.  The  Arena  has  been  the  theatre  of  every  imaginable 
kind  of  spectacle,  savage  and  solemn  and  pathetic,  from 
the  martyrdoms  of  early  Christians  and  the  gladiatorial 

283 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

combats  of  Trajan's  day,  down  through  the  ages  to  the 
bull-fights  of  Napoleonic  times  and  the  last  scene  of  the 
Austrian  domination  in  Venetia,  when  the  Italian  soldiers 
captured  during  the  battle  of  Custozza  were  brought  into 
Verona  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  of  June  24,  1866, 
to  be  confined  in  the  old  amphitheatre. 

In  the  month  of  July,  1805,  Napoleon,  who  was  then 
returning  to  Paris  after  his  coronation  as  King  of  Italy 
at  Milan,  arrived  at  Verona  and  expressed  his  wish  to 
witness  a  bull-fight.  Such  a  spectacle  was  accordingly  or- 
ganised for  his  pleasure,  and  the  great  man  came  to  pre- 
side over  the  entertainment  in  the  Arena  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  1 6th  of  the  month  —  at  the  very  moment  when 
he  was  straining  every  nerve,  politically  speaking,  to  pre- 
pare for  an  universal  European  war,  and  while  his  fertile 
brain  was  completing  the  details  of  his  projected  attack 
upon  the  English  coast  from  Boulogne. 

The  account  of  this  bull-fight  says  that  a  fine,  cour- 
ageous bull  was  loosened,  and  overcame,  one  after  an- 
other, the  dogs  that  were  set  on  to  it,  until  Napoleon, 
carried  away  by  excitement,  ordered  that  two,  and  then 
three,  dogs  should  be  set  on  to  the  bull  at  once;  this 
number  proving  insufficient,  moreover,  the  Emperor  com- 
manded that  all  the  dogs  kept  there  for  purposes  of  bull- 
baiting  should  be  let  in  to  attack  the  bull  simultaneously. 
Needless  to  add  that  the  unlucky  bull  was  eventually 
overpowered  by  its  numerous  adversaries  and  that  it  suc- 
cumbed beneath  their  combined  attack.  It  was  at  this 
point  that  one  of  Napoleon's  general  aides-de-camp  turned 
to  him,  with  the  laughing  suggestion  of  a  warning  to  be 
gathered  from  what  had  just  passed  beneath  their  eyes: 
namely,  the  danger  of  a  general  hostile  alliance  of  the 
European  Powers,  the  which  it  might  well  be  possible 

284 


A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

for  Napoleon  to  defeat  one  by  one,  or  even  by  two  or 
three  at  a  time,  but  which  must  as  certainly  succeed  in 
overcoming  him  when  united  by  the  bond  of  their  com- 
mon danger.  We  are  not  told  what  answer  Napoleon 
returned  to  this;  but  it  certainly  did  not  influence  him, 
seeing  that  he  at  once  set  himself  to  defeating  the  most 
formidable  of  his  opponents,  Austria,  England,  and  Rus- 
sia —  an  undertaking  in  which  the  disaster  of  Trafalgar 
was  well  balanced  for  him  by  the  triumphs  of  Ulm  and 
Austerlitz. 

It  is  recorded,  too,  that  he  returned  to  Verona  for  a 
repetition  of  the  detestable  entertainment  in  the  Arena 
in  the  month  of  November,  1807;  but  that  on  this  occa- 
sion the  bull-fight  was  spoiled  for  him  by  the  early  on- 
drawing  of  the  night  —  which  is  not  surprising  when  we 
read  that  the  spectacle  did  not  begin  until  half-past  four 
in  the  afternoon  1  The  last  of  these  loathsome  affairs 
took  place,  it  is  grievous  to  think,  under  good  Archduke 
John  of  Austria,  in  the  autumn  after  Waterloo,  on  the 
occasion  of  his  assuming  the  functions  of  Governor  of 
Venetia  —  the  solitary  instance  of  his  sanctioning  any- 
thing approaching  cruelty.  It  was  in  the  Arena  of  Verona 
that  my  dear  old  Adelaide  Ristori  made  her  first  bow  to  the 
public  of  Northern  Italy,  although  she  was  already  well 
known  to  that  of  Rome.  I  cannot  say  at  this  moment  pre- 
cisely when  she  first  acted  in  Verona;  but  I  fancy  it  was 
at  some  time  in  the  forties  of  the  last  century,  the  "  roar- 
ing forties,"  when  Venetia  was  making  ready  for  the 
eruption  of  '48.  Verona  was  the  special  darling  of 
"  Father  "  Radetzky,  of  whose  beloved  Quadrilateral  it 
formed  the  chief  fortress,  and  it  was  he  who  fortified 
it  so  well  and  lovingly  as  to  make  it  well-nigh  impregnable. 
It  was  to  Verona,  moreover,  that  he  fell  back  with  his 

285 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

small  but  well-disciplined  army  during  those  dark  days 
of  May,  1848,  when,  as  the  poet  Grillparzer  wrote  in  a 
poem  addressed  to  the  fearless  old  hero: 

"  We  others  are  but  scattered  ruins, 
And  in  thy  camp  alone  is  Austria." 

From  Verona,  too,  it  was  that  the  Austrian  troops 
took  train  in  the  July  of  1866,  under  Archduke  Albrecht, 
to  go  up  into  Moravia  to  the  assistance  of  Benedek's 
army;  and  from  Verona  it  was  that  the  Archduke's  his- 
toric telegram  was  despatched,  on  receipt  of  the  news 
of  Sadowa,  to  the  Emperor  at  Vienna,  bidding  him  take 
heart  and  have  no  fear  for  the  outcome  of  the  struggle : 
"  Nothing  is  lost  yet  so  if  only  both  Army  and  People 
will  spurn  discouragement  from  them.  After  the  defeat 
at  Regensburg  came  the  glorious  day  of  Aspern.  .  .  ." 

But  it  was  in  vain  that  the  lion-hearted  Archduke  tried 
to  obtain  the  prolongation  of  the  struggle;  the  country 
was  willing  to  do  its  best,  but  the  Emperor,  by  force  of 
his  responsibilities,  was  forced  to  view  the  matter  from 
a  different  standpoint.  It  went  against  his  conscience  to 
lay  a  further  burden  of  sacrifice  and  suffering  upon  his 
people,  and  so  he  did  not  hesitate  to  take  upon  himself 
the  heartbreaking  decision  to  suspend  hostilities.  The 
decision,  too,  however  painful,  was  a  wise  one;  and  from 
that  hour  Austria  has  never  ceased  to  grow  in  health 
and  strength  until  to-day,  when  her  position  in  the  coun- 
cils of  Europe  is  once  more  what  it  was  under  Maria 
Theresa.  Let  us  hope  soon  to  see  the  time  when,  as  her 
best  friends  have  never  ceased  from  urging  her  to  do, 
Austria  will  put  aside  all  the  petty  difficulties  that  have 
come  between  her  and  her  mighty  eastern  sister,  and  so 

286 


A  SKETCH  OF  VERONA 

will  join  herself  to  Russia,  together  with  Germany,  in  a 
firm  and  lasting  renewal  of  her  only  natural  policy  — 
that  of  the  Dreikaiserbund,  the  good  old  alliance  of  the 
three  Emperors.  In  regard  to  this  question,  I  wonder 
if  I  may  be  allowed  to  quote  the  dying  injunction  of  the 
Emperor  Nicholas  to  his  son,  the  Tsarevitch  Alexander, 
in  1855  — "And  tell  Fritz"  (Frederick  William  III  of 
Prussia)  "not  to  forget  Papa's  words"  -by  which  he 
referred  to  the  advice  given  by  Frederick  William  II  to 
his  son,  to  the  effect  that  he  ought  never  to  let  anything 
interfere  with  the  natural  alliance  of  Prussia  with  Russia. 


287 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE  BRA VI  OF  VENICE 

Fascination  of  Venice's  Criminal  Administration — Lords  of  the  Night — 
Secret  Detectives — Degeneration  of  Republic — Hired  Ruffians — Their 
Murderous  Activities — An  Escapade  of  Pesaro,  Paragon  of  Bravi — 
Gambara,  Last  of  the  Despots — Open  War  Against  Law  and  Order — 
Final  Pardon. 

OF  all  subjects  connected  with  old  Venice,  in  the 
popular  mind,  that  of  her  criminal  administration 
is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  by  reason  of  the  endless 
traditions  of  mystery  and  terror  with  which  it  is  fraught, 
and,  of  all  historical  executives,  the  Venetian  "  Signori  di 
Notte  " —  the  Lords  of  the  Night  —  appeal  the  most 
irresistibly  to  the  normal  curiosity  inherent  in  most 
people. 

The  very  notion  of  the  nocturnal  jurisdiction  implied 
by  the  title  of  that  famous  Board  carries  with  it  a  sug- 
gestion of  secrecy  and  of  an  unseen  process  of  justice  more 
or  less  summary,  but  invariably  sharp  and  decisive.  The 
members  composing  the  Board  were  frequently  of  noble 
birth,  and  their  official  position  was  not  unlike  that  of 
the  Triumvirs  of  ancient  Rome.  Their  functions,  at  the 
time  when  the  Board  first  came  into  being,  in  the  Twelfth 
Century,  were  those  of  police-chiefs  and  commission- 
ers of  sewers.  They  were  responsible  thus  for  keeping 
watch  over  the  streets  by  night,  and  for  seeing  to  the 
repairing  of  bridges  and  highways.  In  this  manner  they 
soon  came  to  acquire  an  expert  knowledge  of  those  parts 
of  the  city  that  needed  watching,  either  on  account  of  the 

288 


THE  BRA VI  OF  VENICE 

questionable  condition  of  their  buildings  or  else  by  rea- 
son of  their  being  the  favourite  haunts  of  the  criminal 
part  of  the  population. 

Under  them,  less  in  the  character  of  ordinary  police 
than  of  a  secret  detective  force,  were  the  "  sbirri,"  over 
whom  they  assumed  special  control  after  the  unhappy 
affair  of  the  conspiracy  of  the  Marquis  of  Bedmar,  the 
Spanish  Ambassador,  in  1618,  when  he  plotted  the  over- 
throw of  the  Republic;  a  design  frustrated  only  on  the 
very  eve  of  its  accomplishment.  The  method  employed 
by  the  "  sbirro  "  in  arresting  his  man  was  to  throw  his 
cloak  over  the  victim's  head  and  to  lead  him,  thus  muffled 
and  blindfolded,  to  prison.  Occasionally,  also,  the 
"  sbirro  "  was  the  owner  of  a  sponging-house,  to  which 
he  would  conduct  his  prisoner  and  there  detain  him  until 
certain  demands  were  satisfied  —  much  as  happened  to 
Captain  Rawdon  Crawley  in  "  Vanity  Fair."  It  was  in 
this  manner  —  by  muffling  with  a  cloak  —  that  the  un- 
fortunate Cavaliere  Antonio  Foscarini  was  arrested  in 
1622,  on  a  charge  of  conspiring  against  Venice  with  the 
Spanish  representatives  at  the  Villa  Dolo,  the  house  of 
Lady  Arundel  and  Surrey,  where,  together  with  her  hus- 
band, she  was  living  for  the  benefit  of  their  children's 
education.  The  charge  was  a  false  one,  but  Foscarini 
was  strangled  for  it  and  his  body  was  afterwards  hung 
up  between  the  Red  Columns  in  the  Piazza  of  St. 
Mark  —  the  usual  place  of  executions  —  for  the  public 
to  gaze  upon. 

But  the  chief  quarry  of  the  "  sbirro  "  was  that  most 
romantic  of  figures,  the  "  bravo  "  !  The  "  bravi,"  origi- 
nally merely  the  retainers  of  noble  houses,  became,  with 
the  increasing  degeneracy  of  the  Republic  in  the  Sixteenth 
and  Seventeenth  centuries,  more  and  more  mere  murder- 

289 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

ers  and  ruffians,  who  plied  their  trade  quite  frankly  for 
hire.  The  system  ordinarily  in  favour  among  such  mem- 
bers of  Venetian  society  as  had  a  grudge  against  any  one 
of  their  neighbours  was  to  send  out  for  a  "  bravo  " — 
they  were  always  to  be  found  at  certain  places  and  hours 
—  and  to  bargain  with  him  for  a  price  that  depended 
upon  the  extent  of  the  hurt  to  be  inflicted.  I  have  seen 
one  of  the  daggers  used  by  such  professional  "  bravi  " 
and  very  curious  they  were,  being  crucifixes,  of  which 
the  upper  part  of  the  cross  and  the  transverse  formed 
the  hilt  and  quillons  of  a  murderous-looking  knife,  its 
long  double-edged  blade  having  three  lines  engraved 
across  it.  The  purpose  of  these  lines  was  to  mark  the 
exact  depth  of  the  wound,  whether  slight,  or  severe,  or 
mortal;  if  it  were  only  desired  that  the  lowest  of  the 
lines  —  that  nearest  the  point  —  should  be  the  depth  of 
the  stab,  then  the  price  was  a  small  one;  if  the  second 
line,  then  a  larger  sum  of  money  would  be  necessary; 
and  for  the  third,  the  uppermost  line,  a  proportionate 
amount  was  demanded. 

The  alliance  of  the  "  bravi  "  with  the  upper  class  of 
Venice  was  from  the  first  a  natural  one;  for  the  common 
people  has  never  any  need  of  the  services  of  hired  men 
to  settle  its  quarrels  for  pay.  As  a  result  of  the  wars 
of  the  Fifteenth  and  Sixteenth  centuries  there  had  sprung 
up  a  large  class  of  impoverished  or  ruined  adventurers, 
who  were  willing  to  lend  their  services  to  any  cause,  public 
or  private,  for  hire;  some  such,  it  is  said,  were  generally 
to  be  found  in  the  number  of  the  patricians  privileged 
to  sit  on  the  benches  of  the  Great  Council  as  the  supreme 
national  body  was  called.  By  degrees  these  impoverished 
patricians,  who  were  designated  under  the  name  of 
"  Barnabotti,"  drew  to  themselves  the  lawless  element 

290 


THE  BRAVI  OF  VENICE 

of  the  population  and  yoked  it,  through  custom  and  mu- 
tual necessities,  to  their  service,  until  the  thing  came  to 
such  a  point  that  no  wealthy  or  noble  family  of  Venice 
but  counted  its  dozen  or  its  score  of  such  retainers,  thus 
establishing  a  return  to  the  feudal  principle  of  a  State  — 
or,  rather,  States  innumerable  —  within  the  State;  each 
of  which  was  a  law  unto  itself.  The  only  modern  in- 
stitution comparable  to  the  "  Bravi  "  is  that  of  the  so- 
called  "  gunmen  "  of  New  York,  with  their  system  of 
hire  and  their  deadly  feuds  between  gang  and  gang.  For 
the  records  of  the  "  bravi  "  show  many  such  public  flout- 
ings  of  law  in  Venice.  In  the  year  1539  a  certain  indi- 
vidual, who  would  certainly  seem  to  have  been  attached  in 
some  way  to  the  establishment  of  the  French  Ambassador, 
having  committed  some  crime  or  other,  was  chased  by 
the  "  sbirri  "  to  the  French  Embassy  in  the  Calle  San 
Moise,  where  he  found  refuge  from  his  pursuers,  all 
Embassies  being  removed  by  international  usage  beyond 
the  sphere  of  police  activities.  The  situation,  then,  was 
an  extremely  sensitive  one;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  it 
was  thought  advisable  by  the  "  Capo  della  Sbiraglia,"  or 
chief  of  police,  to  send  for  an  Advocate  of  the  Com- 
mune, one  Zorzi,  that  he  might  request  the  delivery  of 
the  criminal  with  all  possible  courtesy.  Zorzi,  on  reach- 
ing the  Embassy,  met  three  of  the  members  of  its  staff 
in  the  courtyard,  and  begged  that  they  would  make  known 
his  coming  to  the  Ambassador.  Instead  of  complying, 
however,  they  only  ran  back  into  the  house,  shouting  to 
those  within  to  make  ready  to  bar  the  way;  and  Zorzi, 
on  following  them  with  some  of  the  "  sbirri,"  found  the 
staircase  held  against  his  further  advance  by  a  crowd  of 
ruffians,  while  others  were  beginning  to  hurl  down  furni- 
ture and  household  utensils  out  of  the  windows  on  to  the 

291 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

heads  of  the  "  sbirri  "  below.  So  that  the  prudent  Advo- 
cate withdrew  with  his  police  and  reported  the  matter 
to  the  Council  of  Ten,  which  promptly  sent  a  force  of 
soldiers  to  the  Embassy  to  seize  the  original  criminal, 
who  had  taken  refuge  there  and,  with  him,  all  the  other 
resisters  of  Messer  Zorzi  and  the  police.  The  Council 
had  acted  thus  in  spite  of  its  all  but  certainty  that  the 
King  of  France  would  declare  war  on  Venice  for  her  vio- 
lation of  his  Embassy;  but,  to  its  relief,  no  notice  was 
taken  of  their  action.  It  was  quite  certain,  though,  that 
the  French  Ambassador  was  in  the  habit  of  employing 
"  bravi  "  about  his  person;  and  his  colleague  of  Spain 
appears  to  have  been  guilty  of  the  same  delinquency.  In 
1556  Edward  Courtenay,  Lord  Devon,  died  at  Padua, 
of  low  fever,  as  was  supposed,  but  in  reality  he  was  mur- 
dered by  a  "  bravo  "  of  Dalmatia,  Marco  Risano,  in  the 
pay  of  Ruy  Gomez,  the  Spanish  Minister.  Courtenay's 
papers  were  placed  for  safekeeping  in  the  hands  of  the 
Paduan  authorities  until  the  pleasure  of  Queen  Mary 
should  be  known  concerning  them.  The  Council  of  Ten, 
however,  was  enabled  to  obtain  a  knowledge  of  their 
contents  by  means  of  its  officer,  the  "  Podesta  "  of  Padua; 
and  certain  documents  which  proved  that  Courtenay  had 
been  an  agent  and  spy  of  France  were  found  among  the 
papers  and  purloined  by  the  Council. 

A  typical  "  bravo  "  of  a  certain  kind  was  a  hardened 
blackguard  of  noble  family  called  Leonardo  Pesaro.  He 
is  said  to  have  combined  in  his  own  person  all  the  vices 
of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  the  end  of  the  Sixteenth 
Century  and  the  beginning  of  the  Seventeenth.  Again 
and  again  this  scoundrel  was  arrested  and  expelled  from 
Venetian  territory  as  an  undesirable  citizen;  and,  as  often, 
he  would  return  either  to  the  capital  or  to  one  of  the 

292 


THE  BRA VI  OF  VENICE 

provincial  cities,  Padua  or  Vicenza  or  Verona.  At  last, 
though,  in  1601,  Pesaro  crowned  all  his  other  achieve- 
ments by  one  of  the  most  shameless  outrages  ever  per- 
petrated upon  the  laws  of  any  country. 

The  way  of  it  was  this :  On  the  last  day  of  February  of 
that  year,  Pesaro,  happening  to  pass  beneath  the  window 
of  a  woman  called  Lucrezia  Baglioni,  who  was  leading 
a  bad  life  under  the  protection  of  a  nobleman  named  Paoli 
Lioni,  called  out  some  indecent  jest  to  her  and  asked  her 
to  repeat  it  from  him  to  Lioni.  That  same  evening 
Pesaro  returned  to  Lucrezia  Baglioni's  house,  where  she 
was  giving  a  banquet  to  a  newly  wedded  pair,  Lioni  being 
of  the  company  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  seems  that 
Pesaro  must  have  seen  them  both  together  at  the  window, 
for  he  repeated  his  jest  of  the  afternoon  loud  enough  to 
be  overheard  by  Lioni,  to  whom,  I  fancy,  he  was  un- 
known. 

;<  What  are  you  saying  there,  fool  ?  "  asked  Lioni,  with 
a  pleasant  condescension,  smiling  down  at  him  from  the 
iron  balcony. 

;<  What  I  please,"  Pesaro  retorted,  "  and  if  any  one 
wishes  to  cross  swords  with  me,  I  am  at  his  service!  " 

From  this  it  seems  evident  that  Pesaro  was  in  the  pay 
of  some  enemy  to  Lioni  and  that  he  had  thus  sought  an 
occasion  of  affronting  him,  and  so  of  drawing  him  into 
a  duel;  which  motive  of  Pesaro's  is  confirmed  beyond  all 
doubt  by  what  happened  next. 

On  hearing  this  challenge,  Lioni  mildly  withdrew  from 
the  balcony  into  the  room,  drawing  Lucrezia  with  him, 
unwilling  to  expose  her  or  his  own  dignity  to  the  inso- 
lence of  the  unknown  roysterer  in  the  street:  whereupon, 
Pesaro,  seeing  himself  baulked  of  his  prey,  went  off  to 
his  lodgings,  put  on  his  breastplate,  mask,  and  morion, 

293 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

and  then  collecting  a  few  of  his  fellow-bravi  went  with 
them  to  find  Camillo  Trevisano,  who  was  his  partner 
and  the  junior  member  of  their  firm  of  u  bravi."  Hav- 
ing found  Camillo,  he  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  say- 
ing, "  Come !  there  is  a  job  waiting  for  us !  " 

And  Camillo,  nothing  loath,  put  on  his  own  armour 
and  his  mask  and  went  with  Pesaro  to  the  house  where 
Paoli  Lioni  and  Lucrezia  Baglioni,  all  unsuspecting  of 
what  was  on  its  way  to  them,  were  feasting  and  making 
merry  with  their  friends.  The  "  bravi,"  on  reaching  the 
house,  had  no  difficulty  in  effecting  an  entrance,  and,  rush- 
ing up  the  stairs,  burst  into  the  chamber  where  Lioni 
and  Lucrezia  were  seated  at  table  with  their  guests. 
There  followed  a  prolonged  scuffle,  in  which  Lioni  was 
slain  and  Lucrezia  received  a  murderous  beating  from 
the  small  shields  carried  by  some  of  the  bravi  —  from  the 
effects  of  which  she  was  eventually  so  fortunate  as  to 
recover  —  whilst  others  fell  upon  the  assembled  com- 
pany, wounding  several  members  of  it,  and  extinguishing 
all  the  lights  save  one,  a  torch  held  in  one  hand  of  the 
bridegroom  the  while  he  defended  his  wife  from  her 
assailants  with  a  chair. 

This  was  the  last  of  Messer  Pesaro's  exploits,  how- 
ever, for  the  "  sbirri "  were  sent  out  to  take  him;  and, 
although  he  contrived  to  slip  through  their  fingers,  yet 
a  decree  of  banishment  was  issued  against  him,  together 
with  Camillo  Trevisano  and  another  of  their  gang,  Ga- 
briele  Morosini,  and  a  price  was  set  upon  their  heads. 
After  which  we  hear  no  more  of  him. 

Mr.  Hazlitt  tells  us  *  how  the  Sieur  de  la  Haye,  in 
writing  of  the  Venetian  aristocracy  in  the  year  1670,  men- 
tions that,  "  whether  they  were  in  their  coaches  or  on 

i "  The  Venetian  Republic,"  Vol.  4,  p.  525. 
294 


THE  BRAVI  OF  VENICE 

horseback,  they  were  accompanied  by  a  rabble  of  Hec- 
tors they  call  Bravi,  many  times  only  in  ostentation,  but 
too  often  for  a  worse  end." 

In  the  greater  number  of  crimes  perpetrated  by  the 
"  bravi  "  of  the  city  of  Venice  itself  during  the  worst 
period,  that  of  the  Seventeenth  Century,  they  appear  to 
have  done  less  with  sword  and  pistol  than  with  the 
arquebus  and  the  stiletto;  the  employment  of  the  latter 
is  comprehensible  enough  on  grounds  of  stealth  and  con- 
venience, that  of  the  arquebus  I  find  less  easy  to  under- 
stand, for  it  was  an  exceedingly  clumsy  weapon  and  pos- 
sessed, as  were  all  firearms  of  those  days,  of  a  tremendous 
"  kick."  The  only  reason  imaginable  for  its  use  is  that 
it  had  the  advantage  of  killing  at  a  longer  and,  conse- 
quently, a  safer  distance  for  the  murderer  than  a  pistol, 
which  could  only  be  counted  upon  at  a  very  short  range. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  the  comparatively  recent 
epoch  of  the  last  half  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  that 
the  "  bravo  "  as  an  institution  acquired  his  widest  celeb- 
rity by  the  commission  of  what  were  practically  acts  of 
open  warfare  against  the  then  moribund  Republic  of 
Venice.  These  acts  were  committed  under  the  leadership 
of  a  man  the  like  of  whom  Italy  had  not  known  since 
the  days  of  the  Despots,  one  Count  Alamanno  Gambara, 
a  native  of  the  parts  about  Brescia. 

Gambara  may  well  and  reasonably  be  called  the  Last 
of  the  Despots,  for  he  was  assuredly  the  last  private 
person  to  terrorise  a  large  district  of  Upper  Italy,  with 
both  comparative  impunity  and  a  certain  measure  of 
hereditary  authority.  As  one  of  Thackeray's  characters 
says  of  Lord  Mohun  in  "  Esmond,"  he  could  handle  a 
foil  —  and  a  bloody  one,  too  —  before  ever  he  learned 
to  use  a  razor.  At  an  age  when  most  boys  are  in  the 

295 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

Fourth  Form  of  an  English  public  school,  Gambara  was 
the  terror  of  the  countryside  in  which  his  paternal  castle 
of  Pralboino  was  situated;  so  that,  when  he  was  only 
about  fifteen  years  old,  the  Venetian  Government  found 
itself  compelled  to  place  him  under  restraint,  his  father 
being  dead  and  his  mother  unable  to  control  him.  Finally, 
he  was  confined  as  a  prisoner,  first  in  Verona  and  then 
in  the  fortress  of  Palma,  from  the  latter  of  which  he 
escaped;  for  a  while  he  wandered  about  the  country,  pur- 
sued by  the  police,  who  were  unable  to  lay  hands  on  him, 
until  at  last  he  decided  to  surrender  himself  to  the  authori- 
ties, of  his  own  accord,  which  he  did,  and  was  exiled  to 
Zara,  the  Governor  of  Dalmatia  being  requested  by  the 
Venetian  Government  to  treat  him  with  all  possible  con- 
sideration and  to  provide  him  with  good  company  for 
the  benefit  of  his  moral  welfare ! 

Gambara,  however,  was  soon  allowed  to  return  to  his 
estates,  and  once  there  lost  no  time  in  gathering  about 
him  a  bodyguard  of  "  bravi,"  with  whose  assistance  he 
soon  signalised  himself  in  various  encounters  with  the 
representatives  of  law  and  order  in  the  province.  Having 
engaged  upon  a  kind  of  warfare  with  the  Customs  offi- 
cials at  Calvisano  —  a  village  near  Porella,  some  distance 
south  and  east  from  Brescia  —  a  detachment  of  Gam- 
bara's  bandits  raided  the  Custom-house  there  and  killed 
one  of  them,  beating  the  others  and  all  but  murdering 
their  captain  as  well.  On  being  summoned  to  appear  be- 
fore the  Council  of  Ten  at  Venice,  to  render  an  account 
for  his  misdeeds,  Gambara  retorted  by  fortifying  his  two 
castles  and  adding  to  his  little  army  of  "  bravi,"  thus 
openly  setting  the  law  at  defiance.  And  now  a  reign  of 
terror  was  inaugurated  by  him  and  by  his  henchman, 
Carlo  Molinari,  the  head  of  his  band  of  assassins. 

296 


THE  BRAVI  OF  VENICE 

This  period  of  Gambara's  career  terminated  with  a 
peculiarly  atrocious  episode.  His  protection  having  been 
sought  by  a  smuggler,  Gambara  took  the  man  in  as  an 
additional  member  of  his  band.  Shortly  afterwards,  a 
party  of  police  happening  to  enter  his  territory  in  search 
of  the  smuggler,  Gambara  invited  them  to  pass  the  night 
with  him  as  his  guests.  This  invitation  they  foolishly 
accepted,  and  the  next  day  their  dead  bodies,  hidden  un- 
der a  covering  of  green  boughs,  were  brought  into  Brescia 
in  a  cart,  which  was  left  opposite  the  house  of  the  Vene- 
tian Podesta  or  Governor  of  the  city. 

The  result  of  this  diabolical  exploit  was  that  Gambara 
was  forced  to  seek  refuge  in  flight  —  what  other  conse- 
quences he  could  have  expected  one  cannot  imagine  —  and 
he  retreated  into  the  neighbouring  Duchy  of  Parma.  Be- 
fore long,  though,  he  petitioned  the  Venetian  Govern- 
ment to  pardon  him,  which  it  was  weak  enough  to  do, 
and  so  he  returned  to  his  estates,  where  he  continued  to 
live  —  spending  a  good  part  of  his  time  in  Venice  itself 
—  much  as  he  had  done  before.  I  do  not  know  when 
he  died,  but  I  fancy  he  must  have  attained  to  a  ripe 
old  age,  dying  somewhere  about  the  beginning  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century.  One  can  only  hope  that  the  grace 
of  a  final  repentance  may  have  been  granted  to  him! 


297 


CHAPTER   XIX 

LEGENDARY  VENICE 

Venice,  Bride  of  the  Sea — Its  Glorious  Children — Pledge  of  the  Crown  of 
Thorns — The  Miracle  of  Saint  Saba's  Relics — Intellectual  Humility  and 
Faith — St.  Mark,  Patron  of  the  Venetians — Theft  of  the  Saint's  Re- 
mains from  Alexandria — Reception  in  Venice — Early  History — Tales 
of  Hardships — The  Gate  of  the  Damsels — Legends  of  the  Saint. 

THERE  is  hardly  a  street  or  a  building  in  Venice 
that  cannot  flower  with  some  whisper  of  legend,  if 
the  soil  of  its  story  be  but  cultivated  with  determination; 
but  a  house-to-house  search  would  involve  the  labour  of 
years;  and,  though  the  pursuit  of  legend  is  doubtless  an 
enthralling  business,  yet  life  is  a  small  package,  and  it 
is  difficult  enough  to  find  a  room  in  it  for  all  that  it  has 
to  contain. 

Still,  if  I  am  fortunate  enough  to  lead  some,  through 
the  lure  of  the  legend,  to  the  serious  study  of  the  history 
from  which  the  legend  is  culled,  my  labour  will  have  been 
repaid  many  times  over.  In  the  rush  and  scurry  of  to- 
day, when  excitement  is  mistaken  for  labour  and  bustle 
for  speed,  scholarship  —  that  is  to  say,  the  real  and 
serious  study  of  real  and  serious  subjects  —  has  become, 
except  for  the  illustrious  few,  a  thing  of  the  past;  but 
those  few  have  gathered  together,  for  our  benefit,  a  pre- 
cious mass  of  material,  a  rich  harvest  of  romance  where- 
with we  can  brighten  many  a  heavy  hour;  so  let  us  wander 
into  the  garden,  culling  as  we  go,  and  acknowledging  our 
heartfelt  gratitude  to  those  who  planted  it  at  the  cost 
of  such  infinite  toil. 

298 


LEGENDARY  VENICE 

The  Bride  of  the  Sea,  seen  from  the  distance,  seems 
to  rise  like  a  softly  coloured  pearl  from  the  misty  em- 
brace of  the  waters,  and  the  effect  is  one  of  such  awe- 
some charm  that,  for  a  while,  the  mind  can  hardly  carry 
the  suggestions  that  crowd  in  upon  it.  What  Venice  con- 
tains! Is  there  any  city  in  the  world,  save  only  Rome 
and  Jerusalem  —  the  cradle  and  the  House  —  that  can 
compare  with  that  jewel-case? 

The  home,  in  one  way  or  another,  of  Titian,  Tinto- 
retto, Giorgione,  Veronese,  and  Barbari  —  the  story  of 
Venice  is  so  illuminated  with  the  glory  of  her  children 
that  its  tragedy  is  almost  lost  in  it,  as  black  rocks  emerge 
with  their  surroundings  in  the  glint  of  the  mid-day  sun. 
From  its  meagre  beginnings  —  a  few  slivers  of  land,  half 
covered  by  the  sea,  where  some  hundreds  of  exiles  took 
refuge  and  sheltered  themselves  in  huts  of  mud  and  osier, 
down  through  the  ages,  she  comes  like  an  Easter 
"  Gloria  " —  first  a  whisper,  then  a  murmur,  and  then, 
from  note  to  note,  onwards  and  upwards,  to  the  crashing 
splendour  of  her  triumph. 

Venice  has  grown  old  now,  and  she  is  content  to  doze 
in  the  sun's  warmth  and  to  dream  of  the  golden  past. 
Her  gates  are  open  now  to  inquisitive  sightseers,  and  one 
can  imagine  her  smile  of  amusement  when,  every  now 
and  again,  some  impudent  brat  digs  her  in  the  ribs, 
Ruskin-like,  and  bellows  his  fortnight-formed  opinions 
of  her  in  her  ear. 

"Oh,  you  were  beautiful!"  they  cry,  "but  what  a 
shocking  condition  of  ignorance  and  idolatry  you  did  live 
in!  Of  course  you  could  not  be  expected  to  be  as  wise 
as  Manchester  or  as  spiritually  enlightened  as  Piccadilly 
Circus  — still!" 

"  Still?  "  she  answers  mildly.  "  I  once  held  the  Crown 

299 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

of  Thorns  in  my  hand  —  did  you  know  that?  It  was 
a  very  long  time  ago  —  seven  hundred  years  and  more  — 
but  I  did." 

It  was  soon  after  the  death  of  John  of  Brienne,  when 
the  revenues  of  France  were  so  eaten  up  by  wars  —  with 
Bulgaria  among  others  (it  seems  queer  to  think  that  that 
state  which  has  been  fighting  the  battle  of  the  Crown 
so  gallantly  should  once  have  been  the  cause  of  the  pawn- 
ing of  the  Crown!) — that  the  government  of  the 
Regency  was  compelled  to  open  subscriptions  for  a  loan. 
The  one  movable  thing  of  value  which  they  possessed 
was  the  Crown  of  Thorns,  and  this  was  given  in  pledge 
to  a  certain  Albert  Nerosini,  as  representing  the  Venetian 
and  Genoese  merchants  who  had  taken  up  the  loan  (one 
wonders  that  some  of  them  were  not  struck  dead  for  the 
impious  sacrilege!).  It  was  taken  from  its  resting-place 
in  the  chapel  of  the  Bouillons,  and,  after  the  term  of 
the  loan  had  run  out  and  the  payment  of  the  note  was 
not  forthcoming,  by  an  arrangement  with  a  rich  Vene- 
tian banker,  made  in  order  to  evade  a  scandal  (one  can- 
not help  thinking  that  it  was  a  little  late  in  the'  day  to 
be  talking  about  a  "scandal"),  it  was  transferred  for 
the  sake  of  safety  to  the  Church  of  Pantocrates,  in  Con- 
stantinople, whence,  in  the  case  of  the  Regency  failing  in 
the  performance  of  its  agreement,  the  banker  was  at 
liberty  to  remove  it  to  Venice  and  keep  it  there  for  a 
further  term  of  four  months;  also,  it  was  agreed  that 
if  the  money  was  not  paid  by  the  I9th  of  June,  1238,  the 
Crown  should  become  the  property  of  the  mortgagee. 

We  are  not  told  what  the  Holy  Louis  IX  of  France 
said  when  he  came  to  hear  of  this  transaction,  but  when 
we  remember  that  in  those  rough  times  even  the  most 
saintly  of  men  were  apt  to  "  let  fly  "  upon  lesser  occa- 

300 


LEGENDARY  VENICE 

sions  and  under  far  less  temptation,  one  can  imagine.  He 
acted,  however,  with  commendable  promptitude  and  sent 
off  two  Dominicans  on  the  spot  to  Constantinople  to  re- 
deem the  relic  from  pawn  and  bring  it  back,  if  possible, 
to  their  own  country  —  a  congenial  task,  no  doubt,  to 
the  sons  of  St.  Dominic. 

It  was  a  long  journey  that  they  had  to  make  before 
they  completed  their  mission,  for  the  Imperial  govern- 
ment had  not  liquidated  its  obligations,  and  the  owner 
had  already  hired  a  ship  to  convey  the  Cross,  and  had 
set  sail  some  time  before  the  two  monks  arrived  at  the 
Golden  Horn.  But  they  tracked  it  to  Venice,  and  there 
they  obtained  an  audience  with  the  Doge,  Tiepolo,  who 
must  have  been  in  an  extraordinarily  good  temper,  for 
him,  for  he  seems  to  have  made  no  objections,  either 
to  the  audience  or  to  taking  them  in  person  to  St.  Mark's, 
where  he  showed  them  a  golden  casket,  sealed  with  his 
own  arms,  wherein  lay  the  treasure  they  sought. 

Louis  IX  had  picked  his  men  well,  they  paid  the  mort- 
gagee instantly,  and  as  instantly  claimed  the  restitution 
of  the  Crown.  It  is  rather  difficult  to  see  upon  what  they 
based  their  claim,  but  it  was  a  pious  age  and  they  seem 
to  have  had  no  great  difficulty  in  obtaining  the  surrender 
of  it,  for  they  were  well  on  their  way  home  before  any 
question  arose  upon  the  subject  between  the  Imperial  gov- 
ernment of  Constantinople  and  the  banker  from  whom 
they  had  redeemed  the  Crown. 

Upon  their  return  to  Paris,  Louis  took  the  Crown  in 
procession  to  the  Sainte  Chapelle,  which  had  been  built 
especially  to  contain  it,  carrying  it  in  his  own  hands  and 
walking  barefoot  and  in  his  shirt  through  the  streets,  and 
there  it  remained  for  many  centuries,  to  attest  the  devo- 
tion and  piety  of  the  Royal  Saint. 

301 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

The  Venetians  appear  to  have  been  ardent  collectors 
of  sacred  objects  at  all  times,  for  it  is  related  that,  as 
early  as  992,  a  certain  Pietro  Barbolano,  afterwards 
Doge,  having  been  sent  upon  a  diplomatic  mission  to 
the  Byzantine  Court,  came  across  the  remains  of  Saint 
Saba  and  conceived  an  ardent  desire  to  transport  the  holy 
body  to  his  own  country.  In  parenthesis,  and  without 
in  the  least  impugning  the  moral  sense  of  either  party 
to  the  transaction,  the  bargaining  that  followed  between 
Barbolano  and  the  officials,  for  the  purchase  of  the  Saint's 
remains,  makes  queer  reading.  There  seems  to  have 
been  no  hesitancy  in  haggling  for  the  relics,  and  no  sense 
of  any  sordidness  or  sacrilege. 

Even  the  storm  that  descended  upon  Barbolano  on  the 
night  of  his  embarkation  does  not  seem  to  have  carried 
any  message  to  him,  but  the  priests  were  alarmed  and 
begged  him  to  reconsider  his  intention.  But  he,  being 
on  the  spot  with  his  two  sons  and  some  servants,  soon  had 
the  casket  on  board,  and  set  sail.  The  weather  cleared 
up  and  equable  winds  soon  brought  them  to  the  Vene- 
tian shore,  when  Barbolano  ordered  the  chest  to  be  trans- 
ferred from  the  ship  to  his  own  house,  which  stood  next  to 
the  Church  of  Sant'  Antonino  at  Olivolo.  But  the  casket 
would  not  move.  So  heavy  had  it  grown  that  no  human 
agency  could  be  found  to  lift  it  an  inch;  and,  while  they 
were  still  struggling  with  it,  the  bell  of  the  Campanile 
began  to  peal  so  violently  as  to  make  the  great  tower 
rock. 

A  crowd  speedily  assembled,  and  Barbolano,  grasping 
the  message  of  the  bell  and  the  meaning  of  the  casket's 
weight,  fell  on  his  knees  and  said :  "  We  will  carry  it  into 
the  Church,  for  the  will  of  the  Saviour  has  been  de- 

302 


LEGENDARY  VENICE 

clared  that  the  body  shall  rest  in  the  shrine  dedicated 
to  his  servant,  St.  Antoninus  I  " 

Immediately  the  casket  became  as  light  as  a  feather, 
when  it  was  conducted  with  all  pomp  to  Sant'  Antonino 
and  laid  upon  the  altar.  As  the  casket  touched  the  stone, 
the  bell  of  the  Campanile  ceased  its  clamour;  and  then, 
over  the  remains,  appeared  a  Dove  of  wonderful  white- 
ness of  plumage,  which  only  disappeared  after  the  "  Te 
Deum  "  had  been  sung  and  the  services  concluded.  An 
altar  was  built  for  St.  Saba  behind  the  choir,  and  the 
casket  was  placed  in  the  Treasury  of  the  Church. 

It  is  told  besides  how,  on  that  same  evening  when  the 
"  Piovano  "  of  Sant'  Antonino  was  strolling  about  his 
garden,  among  some  rose  trees  which  he  had  recently 
planted  there,  he  noticed  a  flower  of  such  unearthly  beauty 
that  he  immediately  ascribed  it  to  the  miracle  which  he 
himself  had  just  witnessed. 

I  can  almost  see  the  smiles  with  which  many  good 
people  will  read  this  little  story,  but  permit  me  to  sug- 
gest, with  all  the  most  kindly  and  friendly  feelings  pos- 
sible, to  such  that,  once  the  human  intelligence  —  and  I 
care  not  whose  it  is  —  is  permitted  to  grapple,  unaided, 
with  the  possibilities  of  an  Infinite  Power,  spiritual  de- 
struction is  the  invariable  result.  "  Whosoever  shall  fall 
upon  this  stone  shall  be  broken  —  but  on  whomsoever  it 
shall  fall  it  shall  grind  him  to  powder!  " 

Legend  and  fact,  faith  and  inspiration  are  so  inter- 
mingled that  to  separate  and  classify  them  is  impossible 
to  any  intelligence  not  directly  inspired.  But  it  is  not  a 
bad  thing  to  bear  in  mind,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  ac- 
quiring that  intellectual  humility  without  which  the  pro- 
duction of  good  work  is  impossible,  that  the  veriest  fool 
can  disbelieve.  It  requires  no  brains  or  study  whatever; 

303 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

but  to  grasp  and  retain  faith,  based  on  conviction, 
and  supported  by  reason,  is  an  extremely  difficult  task, 
even  for  the  strongest  mind.  Indeed,  were  it  not  for  the 
grace  of  the  Almighty  aiding,  I  think  very  few,  if  any, 
could  accomplish  it. 

The  devotion  of  the  Venetian  to  St.  Mark  is  as  great 
as  that  of  the  southern  sailors  to  St.  Antoninus.  They 
were  always  a  pious  people  and  had  carried  about  with 
them  many  relics,  so  that  some  discussion  (probably 
tinged  with  acridness,  since  in  these  matters  each  had  his 
peculiar  devotion  for  his  own)  took  place  as  to  the  choice 
of  a  holy  patron,  for  the  new  settlement,  when  the  de- 
scendants of  the  pioneers  found  themselves  in  a  position 
to  honour  one  with  a  suitable  edifice  —  an  insurance,  so 
to  speak,  of  the  continued  attention  of  the  Almighty. 

There  was  a  legend,  no  doubt  the  smoke  of  some  far- 
off  fire  of  fact,  that  St.  Mark  the  Evangelist  had  been 
shipwrecked  upon  the  shore  of  Rialto  and  that,  on  land- 
ing there,  he  heard  a  voice  from  the  emptiness  of  the 
island  that  said,  "  Pax  tibi,  Marce,  Evangeliste  meus  " 
(Peace  be  with  thee,  oh,  Mark,  my  evangelist!),  words 
which  afterward  became  the  motto  of  the  Republic. 

St.  Mark  thereupon  grew  in  honour  among  the  Vene- 
tians, until  he  had  assumed  the  position  of  Patron,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  the  idea  of  bringing  back  his  body, 
which  reposed  at  Alexandria,  began  to  take  hold  of  the 
common  mind.  But,  unfortunately,  Alexandria  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  Mussulman,  and  the  Emperor  had  forbid- 
den any  intercourse  with  the  unbelievers,  even  for  the 
purposes  of  commerce. 

Now  the  Emperor's  interdictions  were  not  to  be  lightly 
disobeyed,  life  and  fortune  being  the  usual  penalty;  but 
the  Emperor  was  far  away  and  St.  Mark  could  hardly 

304 


LEGENDARY  VENICE 

refuse  to  have  any  one  going  on  such  an  errand  in  his 
keeping.  He  was  an  Evangelist,  too  —  a  mighty  man  and 
one  who  stood  very  near  to  the  throne;  so,  commending 
themselves  to  his  protection,  two  Venetians,  merchants 
and  navigators  —  Burno  da  Malamoceo  and  Rustico  da 
Torcello  —  fitted  out  a  very  fast  boat  with  merchandise 
for  the  East,  and  set  sail,  leaving  no  address. 

When  they  reached  Alexandria,  they  stayed  on  board 
until  the  evening,  and  one  can  imagine  them  sitting  on 
the  deck  and  watching  the  slow  setting  of  the  sun  over 
the  blue  waters,  their  eyes  straying  hungrily  to  the  city 
as  it  faded,  shade  by  shade,  into  an  amethystine  ob- 
scurity. 

They  were  running  more  risks  than  that  of  the  Em- 
peror's wrath  that  night,  and  they  must  have  talked  long 
ere  they  arrived  at  a  plan  of  action  for  getting  the  body 
of  the  Saint  on  board.  It  would  not  be  tamely  surren- 
dered, that  was  sure;  in  fact,  as  they  knew,  it  would  not 
be  surrendered  at  all.  They  would  have  to  take  it,  and, 
besides,  transport  it  through  the  city  afterwards. 

When  at  last  the  night  gathered  the  world  into  its 
mantle,  they  left  the  ship  and  were  rowed  ashore,  when, 
taking  their  courage  in  their  hands,  they  hurried  through 
the  soft  eastern  dusk  towards  the  Basilica  where  the  body 
was  kept.  How  they  came  to  know  their  way  to  it,  his- 
tory does  not  say,  and  that  tangled  maze  of  buildings 
which  was  Alexandria  must  have  been  a  business  to 
thread,  seeing  that  they  spoke  no  language  which  the 
common  people  in  the  streets  understood.  However, 
they  eventually  arrived  at  the  Basilica  and  opened  commu- 
nication with  the  men  in  charge  of  the  Church. 

They  seem  to  have  gone  straight  to  the  point,  for  in 
a  very  short  while  they  succeeded  in  bribing  these  latter 

305 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

(one  can  only  speculate  on  what  they  must  have  been 
compelled  to  pay!)  and  in  obtaining  possession  of  the 
treasure.  That  done,  they  placed  it  in  the  bottom  of  a 
cart  and  filled  the  latter  with  as  much  salt-pork  as  the 
mules  could  draw,  knowing  well  that  no  Mohammedan, 
however  casual,  would  touch  the  unclean  meat  or  even 
approach  it,  after  which  they  retraced  their  way  through 
the  sleeping  city  and  smuggled  their  prize  on  board. 

They  slipped  out  to  sea  while  it  was  still  dark,  and, 
the  wind  holding,  made  the  return  journey  swiftly.  Com- 
ing near  to  their  destination,  they  sent  on  a  light  boat  to 
carry  the  good  news  and  to  give  the  city  and  its  rulers 
time  enough  to  arrange  for  the  triumphal  reception  which 
they  were  sure  would  not  be  grudged  to  the  freight  they 
were  bringing. 

Nor  were  they  disappointed.  The  population  came 
down  to  the  shore  of  the  Lagoon  en  masse,  and  the  four 
greatest  nobles  of  Venice  carried  the  casket  on  their  shoul- 
ders to  the  private  chapel  of  the  ducal  palace,  where  it 
was  to  lie  in  state  until  a  church  could  be  built  for  it, 
amid  cries  of  "  Viva  San  Marco  "  that  swept  over  the 
city  and  from  island  to  island. 

And  it  was  thanks  to  the  Evangelist  that  the  scattered 
factions  in  Venice  drew  together  again  and  became  true 
Venetians,  for  their  allegiance  to  him  bound  them  gradu- 
ally to  each  other. 

The  early  history  of  Venice  is  a  succession  of  wars, 
foreign  and  internecine,  as  has  been  the  experience  of 
every  tribe  and  race  that  has  risen  above  the  common 
herd.  She  came  to  greatness  in  battle,  and  sank  to  little- 
ness in  peace.  Without  strife  —  without  the  continuous 
necessity  of  keeping  herself  in  readiness  for  self-defence 
—  she  relapsed,  like  all  the  rest,  and  sank  into  insig- 

306 


LEGENDARY  VENICE 

nificance.  Muscles  unused  will  soon  become  useless,  and 
this  result  will  gradually  affect  the  whole  system. 

As  early  as  809,  she  was  important  enough  to  attract 
the  enmity  of  Charlemagne,  who  sent  a  fleet  under  his 
son  Pepin  to  the  skirts  of  the  Lagoon.  Then  it  was  that 
Venice  awoke  to  find  herself  a  cause,  for,  in  the  face  of 
the  Franks,  the  p'artisan  warfare  ceased  and  under  Badoer 
the  Venetians  stood  together,  back  to  back,  and  succeeded 
in  handling  Pepin  hard  enough  to  make  him  see  the  wis- 
dom of  leaving  them  in  peace  in  their  islands  after- 
wards. 

Situated  as  they  were,  they  were  the  natural  prey  of 
freebooters  of  all  sorts  for  centuries.  It  was  an  old  cus- 
tom with  them  that  on  the  eve  of  St.  Mary's  twelve  poor 
girls,  endowed  by  the  State,  should  be  married  to  their 
lovers  in  the  Church  of  St.  Peter  the  Apostle  at  Olivolo. 
On  the  3ist  of  January,  939,  some  corsairs  who 
happened  to  be  in  the  neighbourhood,  resolved  to  abduct 
these  Daughters  of  St.  Mark,  knowing  that  the  general 
festa  would  make  a  surprise  easy  and  defence  difficult, 
if  not  impossible. 

Now  the  parents  and  kinsfolk  of  the  lucky  virgins  and 
their  betrothed  used  to  assemble  on  these  occasions  on  the 
island  of  Olivolo,  where  stood  the  Church,  and  from  the 
dawn  the  barks  skimmed  the  canals,  gaily  dressed  with 
flowers  and  flags,  bearing  the  happy  couples  to  San 
Pietro  with  their  dowers  and  wedding  presents;  so  the 
attackers,  conducted  by  their  chief  Gaiolo,  a  renowned 
ruffian  of  that  period,  hid  themselves  the  night  before 
the  festival  in  the  thick  woods  of  Olivolo,  and  the  next 
morning,  so  soon  as  the  procession  had  passed  through 
the  doors,  they  crossed  the  narrow  canal,  and  ran  at  the 
Church. 

307 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

The  rites  had  begun,  and  the  brides  were  on  the  point 
of  being  handed  over  to  their  future  husbands,  when  the 
doors  were  flung  open  and  the  Church  was  filled  with 
armed  and  yelling  men,  who  dragged  the  girls  from  the 
altars,  flung  them  into  their  boats,  and  sped  away  for 
Trieste. 

The  Doge  was  the  first  to  grapple  with  the  situation 
and  rushed  out,  accompanied  by  the  maddened  bride- 
grooms, and  called  every  one  within  hearing  distance  to 
arms.  Some  boats  belonging  to  the  Trunk  Makers  of 
Santa  Maria  Formosa  being  near  by,  the  Doge  and  his 
companions  jumped  in,  seized  the  oars,  and  pulled  with 
frenzied  energy  for  the  lagoon  of  Caorla,  where  the 
rapers  still  were.  Thanks  to  their  knowledge  of  their 
own  waterways,  they  caught  their  enemies  in  a  creek, 
now  called  the  Porto  delle  Donzelle  (the  gate  of  the 
damsels)  and,  with  ferocious  delight,  set  upon  them. 

The  fight  was  a  prolonged  and  bloody  affair,  but  the 
outraged  lovers  avenged  themselves  very  completely,  by 
all  accounts,  for  hardly  a  corsair  escaped,  and  the  girls 
were  carried  back  to  Olivolo,  when  the  interrupted  rites 
were  completed  and  the  tide  of  enjoyment  allowed  to  rise 
to  unusual  heights  in  the  feasting  that  followed. 

In  later  years,  to  commemorate  the  incident,  twelve 
young  girls  used  to  pay  a  visit  in  the  company  of  the  Doge 
to  the  Trunk  Makers  of  Santa  Maria  Formosa  on  that 
date.  It  is  said  that  the  custom  was  originated  by  the 
Trunk  Makers  themselves,  who  requested  the  Doge  to 
make  the  visit  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  offer  the  latter 
a  new  hat,  in  case  of  rain,  which  often  resulted  in  an- 
other custom,  that  of  supplying  the  Prince  on  these  occa- 
sions with  two  hats  and  two  bottles  of  wine. 

There  are  several  legends  of  St.  Mark  extant,  but  per- 

308 


LEGENDARY  VENICE 

haps  the  most  interesting  of  them  is  one  dating  from  a 
flood  to  which  Venice  was  subjected,  owing  to  a  gigantic 
tidal  disturbance  in  1340. 

It  was  on  the  I5th  of  February  that  the  storm  was 
at  its  worst,  and  by  nightfall  the  dry  land  was  almost 
submerged  beneath  the  raging  waters.  A  solitary  sailor, 
hugging  his  cloak  to  himself,  was  standing  in  the  windy 
downpour,  as  evening  fell,  on  the  Piazzetta  of  St.  Mark's, 
when  he  heard  himself  addressed  by  name  and,  turning, 
saw  beside  him  a  tall  and  venerable  person,  who  spake 
in  a  tone  of  calm  authority:  "  I  am  St.  Mark  the  Evange- 
list. Take  me  over  to  San  Giorgio!  "  The  man  hardly 
dared  to  move,  but  awe  getting  the  better  of  fear,  he 
obeyed,  and  ferried  the  saint  to  San  Giorgio,  where,  wait- 
ing for  them  apparently,  stood  a  stout  looking  personage, 
whom  the  terrified  ferryman  presently  learnt  to  be  St. 
George.  As  soon  as  the  latter  was  on  board,  the  Evange- 
list directed  the  sailor  to  proceed  to  the  Lido,  where  a 
third  traveller  was  added  to  the  party,  in  the  person  of 
St.  Nicholas. 

The  sailor,  his  fears  calmed  by  the  presence  of  three 
such  holy  ones,  proceeded  to  carry  out  the  Evangelist's 
further  instructions  without  hesitation,  and  rowed  out 
into  the  tempest  that  was  lashing  the  seas  into  a  scream- 
ing fury.  On  they  went,  the  waves,  though  mountain 
high,  doing  them  no  harm,  until  they  seemed  to  be  en- 
closed in  caverns  of  water;  and  then,  in  an  instant,  they 
were  surrounded  by  legions  of  devils,  howling  and  whoop- 
ing and  leaping  about  in  the  air. 

But  these  latter  were  not  left  long  to  triumph  in  the 
success  of  their  wickedness.  Any  one  of  the  three  saints 
would,  probably,  have  been  strong  enough  to  disperse 
them,  but  the  combination  was  irresistible  and,  after  a 

309 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

brief  resistance,  they  were  exorcised  and  sent  packing. 
Then  St.  Mark  held  out  a  ring  to  the  sailor,  telling  him 
to  take  it  to  the  "  Procurator!,"  who  would  give  him  five 
ducats;  and,  before  the  man  had  time  to  recover  his 
breath  and  voice  his  gratitude  at  the  splendid  reward,  he 
found  himself  alone  in  the  boat. 


CHAPTER   XX 

A  DOGE'S  LIFE 

A  Wicked  Son — Becomes  Doge — His  Marriage — Ambitions — Venice  a 
Huge  Conspiracy — The  Palace  Surrounded — His  Fate — Venetian  Ideals 
— Story  of  a  Feud  of  the  Tenth  Century — Opened  with  an  Assassination 
— Murderer  Upheld  by  the  Emperor — Venice  Attacked — A  Civil  War 
in  Venice — Uprising  of  the  Citizens — Another  Doge — Building  of  St 
Mark's — The  Doge  and  the  French  Abbot — The  Doge  Become  a  Monk 
— A  Story  of  Marion  Crawford's. 

THE  son  of  that  Doge  who  rowed  after  the  cor- 
sairs and  helped  to  recover  the  brides,  wrote  a 
fiery  and  bloody  chapter  in  the  history  of  Venice  —  and 
died  in  the  writing.  He  began  early  in  life  to  plot  against 
his  father,  who,  feeling  the  weight  of  age  and  responsi- 
bility pressing  hard  upon  him,  allowed  his  son  to  sit 
beside  him  and  help  him  in  the  business  of  ruling  the 
State. 

No  sooner  did  the  former  feel  the  sceptre  in  his  hands 
than  he  began  to  plot  against  the  parent  who  had  per- 
mitted him  to  handle  it,  until  he  was  caught  in  the  act, 
and  only  rescued  from  the  mob  who  sought  to  kill  him 
in  the  nick  of  time.  His  father  then  sent  him  into  exile. 

Human  nature  is  a  bundle  of  contradictions  bound  to- 
gether with  cords  of  training  and  pushed  along  by  an 
intermittent  moral  energy,  which  we  call  conscience.  An 
individual  under  given  circumstances  will  attempt,  at 
least,  to  guide  his  actions  by  some  sort  of  reasoning; 
but  place  that  individual  in  a  crowd  that  is  fired  with 
excitement,  in  the  same  circumstances,  and  five  times  out 
of  seven  that  individual  will  cease  to  reason  at  all.  He 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

will  be  caught  up  in  the  whirlwind  of  the  mob's  emotions 
and  do  things  that  will  make  him  blush  ever  after  to 
think  about. 

Which,  perhaps,  accounts  for  the  fact  that,  though 
Pietro  Orosino  ravaged  the  coast  line  and  plundered  the 
Venetians  for  years,  yet  in  the  end  they  presented  him 
with  the  throne,  and  deposed  his  old  father  who  had 
ruled  them  wisely  and  well  during  those  years,  to  do  so. 

Then  Pietro,  having  at  last  got  his  opportunity,  pro- 
ceeded to  show  the  world  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was. 
Feeling  the  need  of  the  Emperor's  friendship,  he  drove 
the  unfortunate  woman  who  had  married  him  into  a  con- 
vent and  sent  her  son  into  a  monastery,  after  which  he 
married  the  sister  of  the  Marquis  of  Tuscany  (who  must 
have  been  a  person  of  singularly  plastic  morals),  and 
being  now  a  connection  by  marriage  with  the  Emperor  he 
proceeded  to  further  fortify  his  position  by  establishing 
his  kinsfolk  in  half  a  dozen  other  States,  where  they  be- 
came people  of  the  first  rank  and  of  considerable  power 
and  influence. 

Now  Pietro's  wife  was  a  German  Princess  (even  in 
those  far-off  times  most  of  the  disposable  royalties  seem 
to  have  been  Germans)  and  he  placed  German  troops  in 
the  fortresses  of  Ferrara,  which  she  had  brought  to  him'. 
Then,  as  a  final  buttress  to  his  strength,  he  organised  a 
small  army  of  professional  soldiers  as  a  bodyguard.  As 
soon  as  he  had  accomplished  that,  he  began  a  systematic 
cutting  of  all  the  ties  that  bound  him  to  his  duty  towards 
the  Venetians  and  attempted  to  dismiss  his  counsellors. 

That  was  as  far  as  he  was  allowed  to  go.  The  first 
families  —  who  had  ambitions  of  their  own  —  quietly 
armed  the  people,  and  presently  Venice  became  one  huge 
conspiracy,  and  one  night,  at  a  given  signal,  the  palace 

312 


A  DOGE'S  LIFE 

was  surrounded  and  every  avenue  of  escape  cut  off.  Then 
Pietro,  sitting  in  the  upper  part  of  the  Palace,  heard  the 
roar  of  the  mob,  rising  and  falling  and  rising  again  like 
the  bellowing  of  a  pack  of  wolves,  and  knew  that  his 
fate  had  leapt  upon  him  out  of  the  silent  night,  as  fate 
has  a  habit  of  doing. 

His  terrified  men  informed  him  that  every  exit  was 
blocked  and,  having  given  him  the  information,  separated 
and  scurried  away  into  corners  and  hiding-places  like  rats, 
all  save  a  faithful  few,  who  stood  by  him ;  and  with  them 
and  his  wife  and  child  he  ran  for  a  private  passage  which 
connected  the  Palace  with  St.  Mark's,  hoping  to  take 
sanctuary  there.  But  the  conspirators  knew  of  the  pas- 
sage, too,  and  there  they  were  waiting  for  him,  when  he 
stumbled  through  the  dark,  and  there  they  killed  him  and 
his  child  and  every  man  that  was  with  him;  but  they  let 
the  woman  go  — fortunately  as  it  proved  for  them  —  for 
Pietro's  wife  was  kin  to  the  Emperor. 

In  view  of  the  fact  that  the  story  of  Venice  is  so  stormy 
a  one,  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  all  the  early  ideals  of 
the  Venetians  ran  in  the  direction  of  peace  and  mutual 
equality,  and  so  determined  were  they  that  discord  should 
not  be  permitted  to  raise  its  head  that  they  made  their 
very  dress  conform  to  their  desires  and  adopted  a  long, 
loose  dress,  which  would  be  most  inconvenient  for  hot- 
blooded  people  who  might  be  apt  to  quarrel  upon  small 
pretexts. 

They  left  these  ideals  behind  them,  however,  as  the 
State  grew  and  flourished.  It  is  not  in  the  Latin  tempera- 
ment to  tread  too  narrow  a  road,  so  far  as  the  passions 
are  concerned,  and,  even  to-day  in  the  south,  if  one  man 
has  the  misfortune  to  slay  another  one,  he  has  always  two 
pleas  to  make,  either  of  which  will,  as  a  rule,  find  a  sym- 

313 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

pathetic  hearing  in  court.  "  La  passione  "  is  the  first — - 
and  any  moderately  good  reason  for  rage  is  generally  all 
that  is  asked  for,  by  way  of  explanation.  "  Scirocco  " 
is  the  second,  and  that  covers  everything  from  a  broken 
dish  to  a  slit  gullet.  No  one  is  supposed  to  be  quite  in 
his  or  her  right  mind  while  the  close,  hot,  dry  African 
wind  is  blowing. 

A  certain  Doge  of  the  name  of  Ziani,  who  lived  in  the 
beginning  of  the  Thirteenth  Century,  happened  to  hear 
that  his  son,  while  bathing  near  the  Abbey  of  San  Giorgio, 
had  been  attacked  by  some  dogs  belonging  to  the  monks, 
and  had  been  very  badly  bitten,  so  badly  indeed  that,  at 
the  time,  he  was  not  expected  to  recover.  Flying  into  a 
rage  of  truly  ducal  proportions,  the  ruler  instantly  or- 
dered the  monks,  the  monastery,  and  the  hounds  to  be 
burnt  —  all  together.  The  monks  appear  to  have  es- 
caped, but  the  house  and  the  dogs  were  destroyed  before 
the  Doge  had  time  to  rescind  the  order.  In  true  Latin 
fashion,  of  course,  he  repented  of  his  decree,  just  too  late 
to  prevent  its  execution;  and,  in  his  repentance  for  the 
sacrilege,  he  undertook  to  rebuild  the  monastery  at  his 
own  expense  and  take  upon  himself,  besides,  an  annual 
pilgrimage,  as  an  additional  penance.  He  was  a  man  of 
the  most  kindly  nature  and  of  a  most  pious  disposition ! 

To  illustrate  the  combination  of  romance,  tragedy, 
loyalty  and  treachery,  piety  and  brutality  that  character- 
ised the  time  and  the  place,  few  better  examples  can  be 
found  than  the  story  of  the  feud  between  the  Caloprini 
and  Morosini  in  the  Tenth  Century. 

It  arose  over  the  hoary  question  of  whether  the  friend- 
ship and  support  of  the  Eastern  or  the  Western  Em- 
pire was  most  to  be  desired  for  the  good  of  the  State. 
.This,  to  be  sure,  was  only  a  peg  on  which  a  private  feud 

3H 


A  DOGE'S  LIFE 

was  hung,  and  neither  one  house  nor  the  other,  as  far 
as  can  be  ascertained,  had  the  slightest  personal  leanings 
either  in  the  direction  of  Otto  or  of  the  Byzantines.  It 
was  enough  that  a  certain  amount  of  popular  feeling 
could  be  roused  and  a  certain  number  of  the  common 
citizens  could  be  induced  to  quarrel  on  the  subject,  while 
the  great  Houses  were  always  to  be  depended  upon  when 
either  loot  or  power  was  dangled  before  them. 

The  Caloprini  opened  their  political  campaign  by  the 
assassination  of  the  most  prominent  member  of  the  op- 
posing faction,  Domenigo  Morosini,  who  is  said  to  have 
been  a  person  of  the  most  exemplary  piety  —  and  his 
naked  body  was  discovered  in  a  boat  near  one  of  the  wa- 
ter gates.  It  was  asserted,  and  with  some  show  of  truth, 
that  he  had  been  set  upon,  while  coming  out  of  church  — 
he  had  made  a  tactical  error  in  going  to  worship  in  the 
district  over  which  the  Caloprini  held  sway  —  and  had 
been  beaten  to  death  by  some  ruffians  in  the  pay  of  Stefano 
of  that  ilk.  The  boat  being  handy,  they  had  pitched 
the  body  into  it  and  had  allowed  it  to  drift  whither  it 
would. 

To  Stefano's  surprise,  the  citizens  of  Venice  seemed 
to  regard  the  affair  with  real  anger  and  disgust;  but, 
knowing  the  form  which  their  resentment  would  prob- 
ably take,  he  forestalled  their  intention,  by  slipping  out 
of  the  city  one  cold,  wet  evening  with  several  of  his  fol- 
lowers and  arrived,  after  a  long  journey,  at  the  Court 
of  the  Emperor. 

Here  Stefano  flung  himself  at  the  feet  of  authority  and, 
in  terms  almost  abject,  begged  the  Emperor  to  look  with 
pity  upon  his,  Stefano's,  beloved  State,  torn  with  the  dis- 
sensions of  wicked  men,  who  had  driven  him  and  his 
companions  into  exile  for  no  reason  except  that,  being 

3'5 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

people  of  some  position  and  of  grave  and  pious  charac- 
ter, they  had  attempted  to  reason  with  the  belligerents 
and  had  refrained  from  mixing  in  the  ungodly  business. 
How  much  of  this  Otto  believed  it  is  hard  to  say,  for 
he  appears  to  have  withheld  any  definite  statements  until 
the  preamble  was  over.  Continuing,  Stefano,  on  his  own 
account,  offered  Venice  to  the  Emperor,  with  all  its  con- 
tents, adding  that,  in  the  case  of  the  former's  acceptance, 
he  would  be  more  than  pleased  to  act  as  the  Emperor's 
Viceroy  and  would  guarantee  a  solid  yearly  tribute.  His- 
tory asserts  that  Stefano  was  believed  to  be  honest,  but 
by  what  process  of  reasoning  the  belief  was  arrived  at  we 
are  not  told.  At  any  rate,  it  did  not  take  the  Emperor 
very  long  to  decide  upon  the  annexation  of  the  province, 
the  governorship  of  which  was  at  the  same  time  offered 
to  that  sterling  patriot,  Stefano. 

The  first  step  the  Imperial  Court  took  was  to  declare 
a  blockade  and  a  cessation  of  all  commercial  intercourse 
between  Venice  and  the  Empire.  The  former  was  then 
declared  to  be  in  a  state  of  siege.  The  blockade  was 
cheerfully  undertaken  by  Stefano  in  person,  whereupon 
the  Bishop  of  Belluna  descended  upon  Citta  Nuova,  which 
was  now  defenceless,  and  sacked  it  thoroughly. 

The  government  of  Venice  fulminated  against  the 
traitors,  but,  beyond  soothing  their  own  outraged  pride, 
the  verbal  thunders  accomplished  little  or  nothing.  It 
is  difficult  to  make  any  pretence  of  serious  protest  upon 
an  empty  stomach,  and  Stefano  must  have  laughed  con- 
sumedly  when  he  heard  about  it. 

But,  just  as  Venice  was  about  to  surrender  to  the  in- 
evitable, Providence  came  to  its  aid  and  removed  Otto  by 
means  of  an  ague,  when  the  Imperial  policy  was  promptly 
reversed  by  the  two  Regents,  and  Stefano  was  out  in 

316 


A  DOGE'S  LIFE 

the  cold  once  more.  As  Napoleon  once  observed,  "  La 
fortune  de  la  guerre  est  bien  capricieuse !  " 

It  was  an  awkward  situation  that  he  was  in,  to  put  it 
mildly.  Forgiveness  and  charity  were  not  salient  features 
of  State  policy  in  those  downright  times,  and  everything 
that  he  owned  on  earth  was  in  the  State  which  he  had  been 
so  active  in  attempting  to  starve,  and  of  whose  recent  in- 
conveniences and  humiliations  he  had  been  the  direct 
cause. 

He  contrived,  however,  to  wheedle  one  of  the  Regents, 
Adelbert  by  name,  into  interceding  with  the  Venetian 
Government  for  him,  and  they,  partly  out  of  gratitude 
to  her  and  partly  out  of  a  desire  to  remain  in  the  good 
graces  of  the  Imperial  Government,  consented  to  the 
Caloprini's  return.  But  Stefano  never  saw  Venice  again, 
for  he  died  before  the  negotiations  were  concluded,  so 
that  his  sons  had  to  return  alone  and  face  their  fellow- 
citizens  as  best  they  could  without  him. 

On  their  return,  they  discovered  that  the  Morosini 
had  not  been  standing  still  in  their  absence,  for  they  had 
brought  the  Doge  and  his  family  into  an  alliance  with 
them,  and  the  feelings  of  the  two  brothers  were  not 
improved  by  the  more  or  less  open  detestation  of  every 
soul  in  Venice.  Not  that  they  would  have  ever  owned 
that  the  affection  or  hatred  of  the  common  people  was 
a  matter  of  any  interest  to  them  whatever,  but  such 
things  make  themselves  felt  constantly,  through  any 
armour  of  indifference,  however  strong. 

The  position  became  more  strained  with  every  passing 
day,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  embers,  fanned  by 
such  inspiring  winds,  burst  into  flame,  and  civil  war  broke 
out  again  as  merrily  as  ever.  This  time  it  ran  its  course, 
and  for  three  or  four  years  Venice  was  in  its  grip  until 

31? 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

at  last,  one  morning  as  the  two  brothers  were  entering 
their  gondola  to  return  home,  they  were  set  upon  by  some 
of  the  Morosini  and  stabbed. 

Then  at  last  Venice  rose  in  its  wrath  and  demanded 
satisfaction,  vowing  that  a  term  should  be  set  to  the  hor- 
rible state  of  things,  when  the  city  was  at  the  mercy  of 
a  single  family,  who  did  what  they  pleased  with  whom 
they  pleased,  and  of  a  Doge  who  was  their  ally.  The  lat- 
ter vehemently  disclaimed  any  connection  with  the  affair, 
but  they  paid  no  attention  to  his  protestations  and  he, 
realising  that  the  supporters  of  the  Caloprini  were  strong 
enough,  with  the  public  fury  at  their  backs,  to  overthrow 
him,  stepped  down  from  the  ducal  throne  and  retired 
into  a  monastery,  where,  soon  after,  he  died. 

He  was  not  the  only  Doge  to  leave  the  world  and  fly 
to  the  spiritual  life. 

One  Oneolo,  the  successor  of  that  Candiano,  of  whose 
tragic  end  I  have  already  written,  was  elevated  to  the 
Dogeship  in  spite  of  himself,  while  the  aftermath  of 
the  hurricane  that  had  destroyed  Candiano  was  threat- 
ening to  destroy  Venice;  outside  influences,  too,  were  add- 
ing their  quota  to  his  heavy  responsibility,  for  the  dower 
of  Candiano's  wife  had  to  be  repaid  and  the  Emperor 
was  behind  her.  The  Ducal  Palace  and  St.  Mark's  had 
to  be  rebuilt,  and  he  was  a  poor  man,  but,  despite  his 
poverty,  he  surrendered  a  very  large  part  of  his  personal 
property  to  the  building  of  St.  Mark's,  and  sent  far  and 
wide  for  workmen  worthy  of  the  task.  He  did  not  do 
anything  by  halves,  for  he  gave  to  the  Church  some  of 
its  most  beautiful  possessions,  and  raised  a  great  hospital 
opposite  the  ducal  palace,  besides. 

He  did  not  have  much  political  peace  during  the  time 
that  he  was  striving  so  hard  and  sacrificing  so  much  for 


A  DOGE'S  LIFE 

Venice  and  the  Venetians,  for  the  Candianos,  recovering 
their  balance,  plotted  against  him  ceaselessly;  but  he 
seems  to  have  borne  his  trials  with  a  strength  and  a 
constancy  hardly  of  this  world,  consoling  himself  with 
daily  visits  to  the  poor  and  afflicted  and  the  joy  of  giving 
to  them  everything  that  he  could  spare  —  and,  very  often, 
a  good  deal  that  he  could  not. 

He  met  with  small  encouragement  from  any  one.  The 
people  were  not  enthusiastic  over  his  diligence  in  repair- 
ing the  damage  which  they  had  done,  and  only  the  very 
poor  ever  really  loved  him,  while  the  great  Houses  were 
monuments  of  silly  wickedness  and  selfishness  from  whom 
nothing  useful  could  be  hoped  or  expected;  so  that  it  can 
be  easily  understood  tha't  the  advent  into  his  life  of  a 
really  good  and  intelligent  person  must  have  come  near 
to  unsettling  his  mind  for  the  time  being. 

It  happened  that  among  the  crowds  of  pious  visitors 
to  the  shrine  of  St.  Mark,  during  the  second  year  of  his 
reign,  there  was  a  certain  Frenchman,  Abbot  of  a  monas- 
tery in  Aquitania,  and,  the  instant  attraction  of  kindred 
souls  drawing  them  to  one  another,  the  Abbot  became 
the  Doge's  confessor,  counsellor,  and  friend. 

When,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  his  last  visitor  dismissed, 
his  last  piece  of  business  despatched,  Oneolo  could  close 
the  doors  of  his  palace  upon  the  world,  one  can  imagine 
the  relief  and  joy  with  which  he  would  draw  up  his  chair 
beside  the  Abbot,  and  lighten  his  heart  of  all  the  accu- 
mulated resentments,  fears,  and  worries  of  the  day,  im- 
mersing himself  in  the  priest's  description  of  the  holy 
sweetness  and  sanctified  calm  of  a  monk's  life.  Oneolo 
was  a  born  monk,  and  he  must  have  felt,  as  he  sat  and 
listened,  much  as  a  soul  in  the  purifying  fires  of  purga- 
tory may  feel  when  the  gates,  far  above  him,  are  opened 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

for  a  moment  to  allow  some  fortunate  soul  to  creep  in, 
and  it  catches  between  the  opening  and  the  closing  a  sight 
of  the  Heavenly  City  and  obtains  a  breath  of  the  per- 
fumes of  the  Celestial  Rose  Garden. 

But,  ardently  as  Oneolo  desired  the  cool  shades  of 
the  cloister,  he  could  not  leave  the  hot  sands  of  public 
life  yet.  There  was  too  much  to  be  done,  and  well  he 
knew  that  only  his  possession  of  the  high  office  kept 
it  safe  from  the  fiery,  blood-spotted  hands  of  his  enemies 
and  the  State's. 

He  thought  over  it  a  long  time,  and  at  last  came 
to  the  conclusion  —  a  quite  unfounded  one  —  that  twelve 
months  of  hard  work,  of  hand  and  brain,  would  suffice 
to  put  the  affairs  of  the  Republic  into  such  shape  that 
he  might  safely  leave  them  to  her  to  attend  to.  So, 
redoubling  his  efforts,  he  slaved  on,  always  with  the  shin- 
ing vision  before  his  eyes. 

I  suppose,  as  the  months  went  by,  that  the  desire  fed 
his  imagination  and  that  the  possible  through  sheer  long- 
ing became  gradually  probable,  and,  as  happens  with  so 
many  people,  that  the  mind  thrown  forward  constantly 
to  realisation  at  last  staid  there,  far  ahead  of  accom- 
plishment. 

At  the  end  of  the  year,  he  had  barely  begun  the  long 
process  of  putting  the  business  of  the  Republic  into  a 
condition  in  which  a  successor  could  handle  it,  but  when, 
with  the  autumn,  the  Abbot  came  back  to  Venice,  Oneolo 
was  ready  to  leave.  So,  in  the  dusk  of  the  morn,  a  cloak 
thrown  over  his  shoulders  and  wrapped  around  his  face, 
he  stepped  into  a  boat,  and  the  two  were  pulled  silently 
and  swiftly  through  the  sleeping  city  to  the  mainland, 
where  they  got  into  their  saddles  and  galloped  away  into 
the  night. 

320 


A  DOGE'S  LIFE 

He  had  a  hard  time  at  first,  for  his  healthy  appetite 
needed  stronger  fare  than  the  rule  of  the  order  which 
he  entered  prescribed;  but  he  persisted,  and  when,  years 
afterwards,  he  passed  away,  his  canonisation  followed, 
so  that  he  became,  as  he  would  have  wished  to  become, 
a  permanent  glory  to  his  State  and  an  example  for  future 
ages  to  follow. 

There  is  one  pretty  story  connected  with  a  Candiano 
—  a  flower  in  that  waste  of  thorns  —  which  I  have  taken 
from  my  brother's  "  Salve  Venetia." 

It  has  to  do  with  a  certain  Elena  of  that  name,  who 
fell  in  love  with  a  man  who  was  her  social  inferior  in 
every  possible  way.  He  was  poor  and  a  plebeian,  either 
of  which  was  to  be  the  mud  in  the  canal  of  the  Princely 
House  that  held  the  Dukedom  so  many  times.  Elena's 
father  was  even  more  prejudiced  than  the  rest  of  his 
kin  at  that  time,  if  such  a  thing  is  possible,  and  had  been 
looking  around  him  covetously,  even  since  Elena  had  been 
a  small  girl,  for  some  youth  whose  wealth  and  blood 
might  make  him  a  possible  match  for  a  Candiano. 

In  the  meanwhile,  as  has  been  said,  Elena  had  also 
cast  about  her,  unconsciously  as  a  creeper  winds  itself 
about  its  supports,  and,  having  no  worldly  judgment  to 
handicap  her  choice,  selected  the  man  who  could  fructify 
her  soul,  rather  than  one  whose  worldly  prospects  she 
would  be  expected  to  enrich. 

Very  secret  she  must  have  kept  it,  for,  innocent  though 
she  was  and  untouched  by  the  coarsening  finger  of  the 
world,  she  knew  perfectly  well  what  would  happen  to 
young  Gheravdo  Guvro  if  word  of  her  spiritual  esca- 
pade should  come  to  the  ears  of  her  gentle  men  folks, 
and,  of  all  the  world,  only  her  old  nurse  was  in  the  secret. 
The  old  woman  was  devoted  to  her  and,  being  a  plebeian 

321 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

herself,  her  class  sympathy  went  out  towards  the  young 
man,  so  that  she  helped  the  lovers  to  meet  again  and 
again  and  whenever  the  chance  offered  itself. 

This  sort  of  thing  could  not  last  for  long,  even  with 
the  most  virtuous  disposition  and  the  best  of  intentions, 
and  it  was  not  very  long  before  the  natural  consumma- 
tion of  the  affair  came,  and  they  were  secretly  married. 

Then,  safe  in  the  irrevocable  nature  of  the  bond, 
Gheravdo  sailed  away  to  make  his  fortune,  as  do  the 
Calabrian  youths  of  to-day,  leaving  his  wife  behind  him  — 
and,  considering  the  moral  characteristics  of  her  kinsfolk, 
he  seems  to  have  taken  some  considerable  risks. 

Before  he  was  fairly  off,  Pietro  Candiano  informed  his 
daughter  that  he  had  found  that  for  which  he  had  been 
searching  and  that  he  was  going  to  marry  her  without  any 
possible  delay  to  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Vittor 
Belegno.  Upon  learning  this,  the  girl's  heart  stopped 
and  she  fell  into  a  trance,  which  resembled  death  so 
closely  that  she  was  placed  in  a  coffin  and  put  away  in 
the  Cathedral  before  the  evening. 

Then  luck  stepped  in,  and  Gheravdo,  for  some  reason 
or  another  returned,  only  to  hear  upon  arriving  of  her 
sudden  death.  Frenzied,  he  ran  to  the  Cathedral  and, 
with  the  aid  of  the  sacristan  —  obtained  in  the  usual 
fashion  —  opened  the  tomb  and  wrenched  the  lid  from 
the  coffin.  Taking  the  beloved  head  in  his  hands,  he 
smothered  it  with  kisses,  crying  and  sobbing  over  it  until, 
to  his  amazement  and  joy,  a  tinge  of  colour  appeared  in 
the  silk-white  cheeks,  and,  under  his  rapturous,  half- 
incredulous  caresses,  the  body  lost  its  rigidity  and  the 
blood  stole  back  into  the  cold  limbs,  and  he  lifted  her 
out,  babbling  his  gratitude  to  the  Almighty,  and  car- 
ried her  away. 

322 


A  DOGE'S  LIFE 

It  is  said  that  when  her  father  set  eyes  on  her  his  joy 
overcame  everything  else  in  him,  and  that  he  gave  her 
to  Gheravdo,  gladly  and  without  reserve,  but  upon  that 
I,  personally,  have  my  doubts.  Still  it  may  have  been, 
and  one  can  only  hope  that  it  was ! 


323 


CHAPTER   XXI 

"THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  SEA" 

Origin — Venice's  Growth — Treaties  with  the  Emperor — Pietro  Orseolo 
Annihilates  the  Pirates — Welcome  on  His  Return — Story  of  Marco  Polo 
— A  Trader  with  the  East — A  Strange  Journey — Bokhara — Capital  of 
Kublai  Khan — Impressed  with  Christian  Ideals — Return  Journey — At 
Home  in  Venice — Failure  of  Plans  to  Convert  the  Tartars — Again  in 
the  Far  East — Lost  for  Twenty-five  Years — Return  to  Venice  with  Vast 
Wealth — A  Gorgeous  Banquet — Marco's  Rehabilitation — Ruskin  and 
the  Church. 

THE  origin  of  the  ceremony  known  as  the  wedding 
of  the  sea  dates  from  the  reign  of  Pietro  Orseolo, 
the  son  of  that  Pietro  who  left  the  world  for  the  cloister, 
after  two  years  of,  to  him,  extremely  unsympathetic  la- 
bour. The  old  gentleman  had  prophesied  the  boy's  rise 
to  his  father's  plane,  during  one  of  the  former's  very 
few  visits  to  him,  in  these  words:  "I  know  that  they 
will  make  you  Doge,  and  I  know  that  you  will  prosper." 
The  prophecy  was  more  than  fulfilled,  for  young  Pietro 
proved  to  be  a  good  man  and  a  strong  ruler,  and  he 
raised  Venice  from  the  position  of  a  small  state,  torn  to 
pieces  by  internal  warfare,  and  constantly  at  the  mercy 
of  her  stronger  neighbours,  to  an  eminence  from  which, 
looking  back  at  her  immediate  past,  and  down  upon  the 
development  of  those  same  neighbours,  she  could  call 
herself  the  "  Queen  of  the  Seas,"  and  that  without  fear 
that  any  would  attempt  to  challenge  her  self-assumed 
title. 

He  began  his  work  by  trying  to  lay  that  fruitful  cause 
of  so  many  quarrels,  the  question  of  allegiance  to  the 

324 


"  THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  SEA  " 

Empire  of  the  East  or  to  that  of  the  West,  by  making 
treaties  with  both,  and  that  done  —  his  decks,  so  to  speak, 
cleared  for  action  —  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  free- 
booters, who  for  a  long  time  past  had  been  exacting  a 
heavy  annual  tribute  from  the  weakness  of  the  distracted 
State. 

In  the  first  combat  that  followed  he  defeated  them 
handsomely,  and  they,  in  revenge,  not  daring  to  jeopar- 
dise themselves  in  the  lagoons  and  canals,  turned  upon 
the  coast  towns  of  Dalmatia,  sacking  and  looting  them 
one  after  another. 

These  latter,  in  despair,  appealed  to  Venice  for  help, 
and  Pietro  jumped  at  the  chance,  and  gathered  together 
a  fleet  as  quickly  as  he  could  arm  it.  From  the  ecclesias- 
tical authorities  he  received  St.  Mark's  banner,  and  set 
sail,  as  we  are  told,  in  the  early  spring. 

Contrary  winds,  or  rather  fortunate  ones,  drove  them 
over  to  Grado,  whose  Patriarch  was  the  son  of  the  mur- 
dered Candiano,  the  predecessor  of  Pietro's  father,  and 
Pietro  was  somewhat  nervous  of  approaching  the  former 
in  the  midst  of  his  own  people.  But  the  Patriarch  had 
buried  the  old  feud,  perhaps  with  the  aid  of  the  thought 
that  Pietro's  cause,  at  the  moment,  was  his  own,  and 
sailed  out  to  meet  them,  and  brought  with  him  the  Stand- 
ard of  St.  Heonagora,  which  he  left  with  them. 

Sailing  away,  Pietro  received  the  submission  of  all 
the  defenceless  ports  and  islands  from  Grado  clear  to  the 
pirates'  stronghold,  the  rock-enclosed  city  of  Lagorta,  the 
sight  of  which  might  have  given  pause  to  a  much  stronger 
force  than  that  which  he  had  brought  with  him;  but,  as 
Napier  so  truly  says,  moral  force  is  the  greatest  thing  in 
war,  from  wherever  or  whatever  it  may  be  derived,  and, 
strong  in  the  righteousness  of  his  cause,  his  belief  in  him- 

325 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

self,  and,  it  may  be,  fortified  by  the  homage  of  the  ports 
and  islands,  he  attacked,  seized,  and  destroyed  it  utterly. 

The  welcome  which  Venice  gave  him  on  his  return  was 
no  half-hearted  affair,  as  one  may  imagine,  since  he  had 
sailed  away  from  a  State  —  and  returned  with  a  small 
empire  in  his  lap.  The  Clergy,  all  in  the  most  sumptuous 
vestments,  were  pulled  across  from  the  historic  olive 
woods  of  Castello  and  met  Pietro  in  his  own  magnificent 
barge,  at  the  Lido,  where  the  Bishop  prayed  and  the 
priests  sang  and  the  incense  rose,  and  the  Bishop  sprin- 
kled Pietro  with  holy  water,  and  poured  what  was  left 
into  the  lagoon,  imploring  the  Almighty  to  make  the  sea 
safe  both  for  them  and  for  all  others  who  should  sail 
upon  it. 

In  this  search  for  flowers,  one  cannot  stay  in  one  part 
of  the  garden,  methodically  extracting  the  choice  of  its 
beds,  and  then  move,  as  methodically,  on  to  the  next; 
so  I  must  be  excused  if,  seeing  a  bloom,  I  pick  it,  and 
look  around  me  afterwards  for  another,  instead  of  keep- 
ing my  eyes  on  those  on  either  side  of  me,  when  I  might 
be  tempted  to  smaller  and  weaker  blossoms,  and  so,  my 
basket  filled,  find  no  room  for  the  best,  when  I  come  upon 
them  afterwards. 

Marco  Polo  was  one  of  a  family  of  merchants,  quiet 
and  law-abiding  people,  and  who  traded  successfully,  in 
spite  of  the  almost  continuous  state  of  war  in  which  their 
world  was  plunged,  with  the  near  East,  and  particularly 
with  Constantinople,  where  for  many  years  they  had  been 
in  perfect  safety,  thanks  to  the  chests  full  of  treaties 
which  the  Venetians  had  made  with  the  rulers  of  the 
Eastern  Capital. 

But  now,  as  Marco  came  into  his  manhood,  his  affairs 
were  no  longer  quite  so  secure,  for  a  change  of  dynasty 

326 


seemed  to  be  approaching  the  near  East,  and  the  Vene- 
tians, being  allies  of  the  old  House,  were  by  consequence 
the  enemies  of  the  new,  and  of  their  friends  —  a  state 
of  things  not  at  all  to  the  taste  of  those  steady,  somewhat 
pompous  men  of  affairs  who,  until  that  time,  had  had  this 
extremely  satisfactory  market  to  themselves. 

Foreseeing,  probably,  that  their  State  would  presently 
be  involved  in  a  war  for  the  commercial  supremacy  of  the 
East,  the  outcome  of  which  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
doubtful,  Marco  and  his  brother  resolved  to  take  time 
by  the  forelock  and  establish  a  new  trading  base  before 
the  old  one  was  lost  to  them  for  ever;  so,  after  a  great 
deal  of  prolonged  discussion,  and  one  may  imagine  how 
much  adding  and  subtracting  and  multiplying  and  divid- 
ing of  figures,  the  two  men  started,  sailed  for  the 
Crimea,  where  a  foothold  at  least  had  already  been 
obtained,  and  a  base  of  supplies  partially  established. 

They  left  Constantinople  while  the  struggle  between 
Paleologus  and  the  Latins  was  at  its  worst,  and  took  with 
them  a  stock  of  goods,  as  being  the  most  portable  and 
convenient  agent  of  exchange  in  the  mysterious  and  prac- 
tically unknown  countries  for  which  they  were  bound. 
They  seem  to  have  had  some  idea  of  the  products  of 
the  East,  however,  and  no  doubt  expected  to  make  a 
most  profitable  journey  among  the  barbarians. 

A  stranger  journey  has  never,  perhaps,  been  taken. 
The  East,  the  huge,  ponderous,  top-heavy  old  East;  was 
only  known  of  at  all  through  the  emissaries  of  Innocent 
IV  and,  as  an  occasional  assistance  against  the  Saracens, 
by  the  Crusaders. 

Their  wanderings  from  Soldadina  to  Bokhara  must 
have  been  eventful  enough,  for  that  part  of  the  world 
was  quite  as  much  at  war  with  itself  as  was  Europe, 

327 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

but  Bokhara  itself  must  have  been  a  weary  memory  to 
them  afterwards,  for  they  were  kept  there  for  the  better 
part  of  three  years,  being  unable  either  to  advance  or  to 
retire  —  the  unknown  in  front  and  the  over-risky  deserts 
behind. 

Here  they  were  picked  up  by  some  envoys  journeying 
to  the  court  of  Kublai  Khan  —  who  offered  to  take  them 
with  them,  assuring  them  that  the  great  Prince  would  be 
overjoyed  to  receive  them,  since  he  had  never  seen  a 
European  in  his  life. 

They  spoke  no  more  than  the  truth,  for  when,  after 
months  of  hard  travel  over  the  steppes  and  through  the 
hot,  arid,  pungent  dust  —  the  days  as  hot  as  fire  itself, 
the  nights,  as  often  as  not,  bitterly  chill  —  the  two  hardy 
brothers  arrived  at  the  Khan's  Capital,  he  received  them 
with  great  honour  and  placed  everything  of  his  at  their 
service,  as  though  they  were  brother  Princes.  A  gentle- 
mannered,  polite,  very  imaginative  person  they  found 
him,  with  an  unlit  fire  of  religious  feeling,  to  which  their 
devout  Catholicism  very  soon  put  a  match.  A  wise  man 
—  one  may  well  say  a  great  one  —  the  empty  idolatry  of 
his  own  people  could  have  no  attraction  for  him,  and 
when  the  two  brothers,  at  his  earnest  request,  expounded 
to  him  some  of  the  leading  tenets  of  Christianity,  he  was 
so  struck  with  its  ideals  that  he  begged  them  to  take 
a  petition  to  the  Pope,  that  His  Holiness  would  send 
him  a  hundred  men  —  wise  men  —  versed  in  the  uses  of 
argument  and  capable  of  converting  his  Tartars  by  con- 
vincing their  reason  in  the  matter;  a  task  for  wise  men, 
indeed,  when  the  reason  of  the  average  Tartar  is  taken 
into  consideration,  unless  the  Khan  intended  to  supple- 
ment their  efforts  by  making  an  appeal  of  his  own  to 
other  of  their  senses. 

328 


"  THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  SEA  " 

The  two  brothers  started  on  their  return  journey  by 
themselves,  carrying  with  them  a  passport  in  the  shape 
of  a  golden  tablet  on  which  the  Prince's  injunctions  to 
whomsoever  it  might  be  shown  were  carved.  Three  years 
it  took  the  adventurous  pair  to  arrive  at  Acre,  one  of  the 
last  outposts  of  civilisation,  when  they  were  told  that  the 
Pope  was  dead. 

Having  been  informed  by  the  legate  that  there  was 
little  chance  of  a  Pope's  being  elected  for  a  long  time  to 
come,  and,  seeing  that  only  to  a  Pope  could  the  petition 
be  delivered,  they  cast  about  for  some  way  to  fill  in  the 
time,  and  bethought  them  of  Venice.  Neither  of  them 
had  paid  their  native  state  a  visit  in  fifteen  years,  and 
Marco,  it  appears,  had  a  child  there.  His  wife  was  prob- 
ably dead,  though  it  is  impossible  to  be  sure  of  it,  and 
Marco's  heart  was  naturally  moved  at  the  prospect  of 
an  entirely  new  experience,  that  of  holding  his  own  child 
in  his  arms. 

So  to  Venice  they  repaired,  and  in  the  pleasures  of 
renewing  their  acquaintance  with  old-time  friends,  and 
bathing  in  the  comforts  and  delights  of  civilisation,  the 
Khan  and  his  business  gradually  faded  from  their  minds. 
The  election  of  a  new  Pope  seemed  to  be  as  far  away 
as  ever,  too,  and  the  whole  world  of  the  church  was 
divided  into  camps,  with  no  prospect  that  any  one  could 
see  of  a  solution  of  the  trouble. 

It  must  be  explained  that  the  Emperor  had  taken  it 
into  his  autocratic  heart,  at  that  time,  to  elect  a  Pope 
of  his  own,  and  force  recognition  from  the  rule  of  Chris- 
tianity in  the  usual  fashion  if  his  presumption  were 
resented. 

As  time  went  by  the  explorers'  hearts  began  to  get  rest- 
less again,  for  that  fever  never  leaves  its  victims  alone 

329 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

for  long,  and  their  imaginations  turned  to  the  East,  where 
the  Khan  was  still  waiting  for  them;  with  that,  it  appears, 
their  religious  instincts  awoke  again,  and  the  business  of 
converting  the  Tartars  became  the  most  important  thing 
in  the  world  to  them. 

In  a  very  short  while  they  were  once  more  in  Acre, 
where  they  had  another  interview  with  the  Legate 
Tibaldo  di  Piacenza,  who  was  soon  to  move  from  Acre 
to  the  throne  of  Peter  (as  Gregory),  from  whom  they 
obtained  a  document  which  should  explain  to  Kublai 
Khan  the  impossibility  of  satisfying  his  wishes  in  the  ab- 
sence of  a  supreme  authority. 

They  had  got  no  further  than  Armenia  when  they  were 
overtaken  by  messengers  from  Tibaldo,  announcing  his 
election  and  bidding  them  come  to  Acre,  where  he  would 
do  what  he  could  in  the  matter  of  the  desired  mission. 

So  to  Acre  they  returned;  but  Gregory  could  not  find 
anything  like  a  hundred  wise  men  who  were  willing  to 
undertake  such  an  errand,  and,  since  he  needed  all  of 
such  that  he  could  find  near  him  just  then,  the  Emperor 
having  by  no  means  relinquished  his  ambitions,  he  com- 
promised by  despatching  a  couple  of  Dominicans. 

These  pious  men,  however,  while  they  had  been  willing 
enough  to  risk  themselves  in  an  ordinary  venture,  shrank 
—  and  quite  reasonably  —  from  the  prospect  which  the 
brothers  unfolded  to  them  on  the  way;  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  the  chances  they  were  asked  to  take  were 
rather  appalling,  and,  at  the  last  point  from  which  they 
could  return  safely,  they  left  the  brothers  and  made  back 
whence  they  had  come. 

So  the  three  (for  Marco's  son  accompanied  them) 
struck  out  into  the  hinterland  alone,  and  for  three  long 
years  they  journeyed  on  ceaselessly,  now  in  peace,  now 

330 


11  THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  SEA  " 

fighting,  now  .fed,  now  half  starved,  until  at  last  they 
came  to  the  rising  ground,  from  whose  sandy  height  they 
had  looked  their  last  on  the  city  of  Kublai  Khan  eight 
years  before. 

With  the  descent  of  the  farther  slope,  they  vanished 
from  the  world,  as  completely  as  though  they  had  been 
swallowed  up  in  a  "  dust-devil,"  and  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury passed  before  they  reappeared,  by  which  time  every 
memory  of  them  had  grown  dim  in  Venice. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  only  after  twenty-five  years 
that  they  managed  to  make  their  way  across  Asia,  slowly 
and,  it  must  be  supposed,  anxiously,  for  they  carried  with 
them  a  burden  of  wealth,  the  like  of  which  had  never 
before  been  heard  of  in  prosaic  Europe.  As  they  had 
vanished  in  the  twilight,  so  they  returned  in  the  dusk, 
three  figures,  crouching  in  the  long  boat,  looking  about 
them  at  the  dim  bulk  of  house,  church,  and  palace  with 
eager  eyes,  and  whispering  to  each  other,  as  old,  long- 
forgotten  landmarks  rose  up  from  the  water  to  greet 
them.  They  must  have  chuckled  to  themselves,  too,  at 
the  thought  of  the  amazement  of  their  relations  at  the 
joke  which  they  were  going  to  play  upon  them  presently. 
For  a  sorry  appearance  they  must  have  presented,  yet 
beneath  the  rough  Tartar  clothing  was  hidden  that  which 
would  have  bought  a  street  of  those  shadowy  buildings 
that  loomed  up  on  either  side  of  them. 

The  Casa  Polo  happened  that  night  to  be  full  of 
their  relations,  brought  together  for  a  "  festa  "  of  some 
sort,  and  when  they  arrived  in  the  courtyard  the  sounds 
and  the  lights  must  have  warmed  the  travellers'  hearts. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  to  their  taste,  or  at  least 
to  that  of  Marco,  who  was  decidedly  fond  of  the  "  lime- 
light," than  the  prospect  of  being  thus  precipitated  into 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

a  crowd  of  strange  relations.  That  the  present  owners 
might  not  be  enthusiastic  about  giving  up  the  "  Casa  " 
to  its  rightful  owners  does  not  seem  to  have  occurred 
to  them,  for  they  advanced  boldly  and  knocked,  announc- 
ing themselves  loudly  when  the  windows  filled  with  heads, 
and  the  gate  —  which  may  be  seen  to  this  day  in  the  Corte 
della  Sabbinera  —  with  bodies,  and  the  air  with  voices, 
demanding  to  know  who  these  evil-looking  strangers 
were  and  by  what  right  they  came  thundering  at  the  doors 
of  a  noble  House. 

A  difficult  business  it  proved  for  the  three  to  so  much 
as  make  themselves  understood,  for  their  Venetian  was 
rusty  and  their  faces  were  those  of  absolute  strangers. 
They  were  dirty  and  brown  and  altogether  foreign,  but 
they  seem  to  have  made  some  impression,  for  they  were 
allowed  to  make  a  serious  attempt  at  establishing  their 
identity,  by  asking  every  one  present  to  a  great  banquet 
on  the  following  day  —  when,  as  the  story  goes,  they 
astonished  the  company  vastly  by  changing  their  dress 
no  less  than  three  times  during  the  meal,  each  time  for 
a  more  gorgeous  one,  until  the  climax  came  upon  young 
Marco's  leaving  the  table  and  bringing  into  the  room 
the  three  coarse  Tartar  coats  in  which  they  had  returned, 
and  ripping  them  open,  when  such  a  rain  of  jewels  fell 
upon  the  table  that  the  company  sprang  to  its  feet  with 
cries,  for  nothing  like  it  had  been  heard  of  in  the  memory 
of  man.  At  the  sight  of  such  prodigious  wealth,  it  seems 
the  relations  recognised  them  instantly,  as  is  the  habit 
of  relations  to  this  day,  and  fell  upon  their  necks,  and  all 
the  young  plants  of  grace  came  to  the  house  from  all  over 
the  town  and  also  fell  upon  their  necks  and  made  much 
of  them,  and  the  night  must  have  slid  into  the  day  in  a 
blaze  of  glory  and  wine. 

332 


"  THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  SEA  " 

So  the  adventurers  came  home  again,  and  for  years 
afterwards  Marco  continued  to  relate  the  amazing  tales 
of  their  adventures,  not  ceasing  even  when  he  was  in 
prison  in  Genoa,  after  the  battle  of  Cuozla. 


I  must,  with  permission,  take  this  opportunity  of  warn- 
ing all  and  sundry  against  a  too  serious  consideration  of 
the  late  Mr.  Ruskin  in  any  other  capacity  than  as  a  stu- 
dent of  the  beautiful.  In  that  he  is  alone.  As  a  phi- 
losopher—  or  as  a  theologian  —  he  is  also  alone,  and  I 
would  very  strongly  recommend  my  readers  to  leave  him 
in  his  loneliness.  I  would  not  take  the  space  to  notice  the 
calumnies  on  the  Church  and  her  history  with  which 
his  immortal  work  is  interlarded,  save  that  she  and  her 
teachings  are,  as  far  as  can  be  judged  from  contemporary 
writings,  utterly  unknown  to  any  one  outside  of  her  own 
Communion.  Again  and  again  I  have  picked  up  articles, 
written  by  men  of  known  learning,  professors,  clergy- 
men, men  of  letters,  whose  names  are  almost  household 
words,  that  set  forth,  with  all  complacency  and  assurance 
—  not  as  statements  about  which  there  might  be  some 
reasonable  doubt,  but  as  facts,  so  well  known  as  to  admit 
of  no  further  question  —  such  appalling  lies  —  there  is 
no  other  word  for  it  —  that  one  is  driven,  at  times,  to 
the  point  of  wondering  if  it  is  an  epidemic  from  which 
they  are  suffering  —  a  disease  which  they  have  caught  un- 
consciously and  in  spite  of  themselves.  On  most  other 
subjects  they  are  sane  —  on  other  questions  which  they 
undertake  to  discuss  they  are  informed  —  they  must  be, 
or  else  how  could  they  have  arrived  at  their  present  emi- 
nence? Yet,  for  the  discussion  of  this,  admittedly  the 
most  intricate  of  studies  and  one  for  the  understanding 

333 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

of  which  a  lifetime  of  labour  is  hardly  sufficient,  they 
never  appear  to  feel  the  need  of  any  sort  of  serious  prepa- 
ration. In  the  same  way,  while  they  will  vigorously 
adhere  to  facts,  elsewhere,  refraining  manfully  from  en- 
tangling comment,  here  they  seem  to  lose  all  sense  of 
moral  obligations  in  the  direction  of  effectual  research, 
and,  naturally  kindly,  as  many  of  them  are,  they  become 
simply  venomous.  Naturally  accurate  and  conscientious, 
they  develop  a  spirit  of  vicious  speculation,  which  amounts 
to  a  possession. 

I  will  not  enlarge  upon  this  topic,  nor  would  I  have 
embarked  upon  it  at  all  were  it  not  that  the  spirit  of 
Ruskin  —  narrow,  self-centred,  self-contented,  utterly 
uninformed,  making  a  religion  of  ill-will,  and  ill-will  into 
a  religion  —  has  as  much  sway  in  our  day  as  it  had  in 
his,  and  its  expression  in  his  works  is  the  reflection  of 
the  real  feelings  of  many,  many  people  to-day.  Let  none 
doubt  that;  and  the  fact  that  the  calumniators  are,  some 
of  them,  men  of  blameless  private  life,  or  of  unquestion- 
able mental  integrity  in  their  own  work,  makes  them  all 
the  more  difficult  to  reach,  for  the  pride  which  those  pri- 
vate virtues  engender  is  a  horribly  thick  armour  to 
penetrate. 


334 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WAR  WITH  GENOA 

Supernatural  Recovery  of  the  Apostle's  Body — Ruskin's  Account — Origin 
of  the  War — Early  Life  of  Carlo  Zeno — His  Conquests — Governor  of  a 
Province  in  Greece — Return  to  Venice — Adventures  at  Constantinople — 
Escape  of  Zeno— Tenedos  Becomes  Venetian — Attack  of  the  Genoese — 
Their  Repulse — Carlo's  Popularity  in  Venice — Pisani's  Career — Carlo 
Routs  the  Genoese — Peace — Carlo's  Fame — His  Visit  to  Jerusalem — 
Last  Scuffle  with  the  Genoese — Life  in  Venice. 

IT  has  been  told  how,  after  the  assassination  of  the 
Doge  Saundo  IV,  the  mob,  in  a  state  of  ungovern- 
able fury,  set  fire  to  the  ducal  palace,  and  how  this  fire, 
spreading,  injured  many  noble  buildings  including  St. 
Mark's  itself.  Orseolo,  it  may  be  remembered,  left  the 
world  within  two  years  of  his  election,  and  the  repairs 
were  finished  under  Vital  Falier. 

Then,  to  the  dismay  of  the  Doge  and  everybody  else, 
it  was  discovered  that  the  original  resting-place  of  the 
Holy  Apostle  had  been  forgotten;  and  the  pious  Doge, 
having  exhausted  all  the  possibilities,  resolved  to  leave 
the  matter  to  the  Almighty,  who,  by  the  intercession 
of  the  Evangelist,  might  enlighten  them  if  He  saw 
fit. 

So  a  general  fast  was  proclaimed,  for  how  long  we  are 
not  told,  and  prayers  were  offered  up  in  all  the  Churches 
and  in  every  home;  a  procession  was  arranged  for  the 
25th  of  June,  when  the  people  —  or  as  many  of  them  as 
could  —  assembled  in  the  Church  and  all  prayed  together 
with  their  whole  hearts. 

As  they  were  doing  so,  to  their  wonder  and  delight 

335 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

the  marbles  of  one  of  the  pillars  began  to  shake  a  lit- 
tle, which,  as  they  watched,  fell  down  completely,  dis- 
closing beneath  it  the  bronze  chest  in  which  the  body 
had  formerly  been  laid. 

Ruskin,  of  course,  stigmatises  this  "  as  one  of  the  best 
arranged  and  most  successful  impostures  ever  attempted 
by  the  clergy  of  the  Romish  Church  " —  how  he  does 
love  that  expression!  He  goes  on  to  say  that  the  body 
of  St.  Mark  had,  doubtless,  perished  in  the  conflagration 
of  976,  but  since  St.  Mark's  was  not  burned  to  the  ground 
in  976,  but  merely  damaged,  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  upon 
what  he  bases  the  suggestion.  Because  the  site  was  for- 
gotten? There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  it  was. 
Even  if  they  had  wished  to,  the  clergy  could  not  have 
deceived  any  one  then,  for  all  had  had  access  to  the  spot 
formerly.  It  was  not  a  secret  at  all. 

Besides,  the  stone  pillar  was  solid.  It  had  been  in 
place  for  a  long  time.  To  insert  a  bronze  coffin  into 
solid  stone  is  no  light  task,  while  to  do  it  unobserved  and 
to  replace  the  marble  afterwards  well  enough  to  escape 
detection,  in  a  church  whose  doors  are  open  from  the 
early  hours  of  the  morning  until  late  into  the  night, 
savours  of  the  impossible.  The  story  is  perfectly  true, 
for  the  record  of  it  is  to  be  found,  as  Ruskin  tells  us, 
in  a  mosaic  of  the  North  Transept. 

In  the  histories  of  all  states  and  countries  there  are 
names  that  stand,  as  it  were,  as  the  very  pillars  upon 
which  those  histories  are  built;  and,  of  these,  some  are 
solid  and  practical,  some  light  and  ornamental.  Venice 
has  had  her  share  —  Carmagnola,  Pisani,  Carlo  Zeno, 
Marco  Polo,  Andrea  Contarini,  and  many  others. 

Two,  at  least,  of  these  served  together  —  namely,  Vit- 
tor  Pisani  and  Carlo  Zeno  —  during  that  incident  in  the 

336 


almost  ceaseless  state  of  war  between  Venice  and  her 
maritime  and  business  rival,  Genoa,  which  is  known  as 
the  War  of  Chioggia.  So  like  the  accounts  which  we 
read  in  our  time  of  quarrels  between  great  corporations, 
is  that  of  the  origin  of  this  particular  war,  that  it  is  worth 
explaining,  if  only  to  illustrate  the  unchanging  quality  of 
our  human  nature. 

The  long,  long  struggle  that  culminated  in  the  War 
of  Chioggia  had  its  origin  in  an  alliance  —  what  is  known 
in  our  day  as  a  "  gentlemen's  agreement "  -  between  the 
two  States,  to  boycott  the  Crimean  Peninsula,  in  revenge 
for  the  murder  of  some  Venetian  and  Genoese  traders 
there  by  a  certain  Chief  of  the  name  of  Zani  Bey. 

To  be  sure,  very  little  incitement  was  needed  on  either 
side,  at  that  juncture,  for  affairs  at  Constantinople  had 
been  spurring  Genoese  ill-feeling  for  some  time  past,  and 
Venice,  not  to  be  taken  by  surprise,  had  been  pushing 
her  preparations  —  just  as  the  great  monetary  powers  are 
doing  to-day  —  to  a  point  where  they  were  a  threat  and 
a  menace  to  every  state  in  her  neighbourhood. 

Each  was  hiring  bravi  and  condottieri  in  every  direc- 
tion, each  was  hard  at  work  forming  alliances  —  the  story 
of  our  own  time  all  over  again  —  and  when  Venetians 
discovered  that  the  Genoese  were  flirting  with  the  trade 
of  the  Crimea,  in  spite  of  their  pledged  word,  and  vice 
versa,  the  trouble  came  to  a  head,  and  both  Carlo  Zeno 
and  Pisani  were  set  to  work. 

Carlo  Zeno  came  to  the  sword  by  devious  ways.  He 
was  destined  for  the  Church,  and  was  sent  at  an  early 
age  to  Avignon,  in  order  to  bring  him  under  the  eye  of 
the  Holy  Father  and  into  the  circles  where  sinecures  and 
promotions  were  most  easily  obtainable. 

Nor  were  the  hopes  of  his  relations  disappointed,  for 

337 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

it  was  not  long  before  he  was  appointed  to  a  canonicate 
at  Patras,  that  carried  with  it  a  very  comfortable  in- 
come; soon  after  which,  being  still  a  boy,  he  was  sent 
back  to  his  uncle's  people  and  thence,  for  his  studies,  to 
Padua.  Here  the  spirit  of  the  future  Terror  of  the  Seas 
began  to  appear  in  the  boy,  for  he  refused  to  study  with 
any  seriousness  and  spent  most  of  his  time  and  all  of 
his  substance  in  gambling  and  riotous  living. 

At  last,  having  sold  his  books,  and  lost  the  proceeds, 
he  escaped,  by  night,  from  the  pack  of  creditors  who 
had  been  dogging  his  footsteps,  and  took  service,  though 
with  whom  it  is  difficult  to  discover. 

For  some  time  he  wandered  over  Italy,  learning,  as 
he  went,  the  trade  which  was  afterwards  to  make  him 
famous,  until,  when  five  years  had  passed,  he  began  to 
feel  the  need  of  "  ranging  "  himself,  and  returned  to  his 
uncle,  who  had  been  mourning  him  for  dead,  and  who 
received  him  with  open  arms. 

The  German  custom  of  the  "  Wanderjahr  "  is  an  old 
one,  and,  as  far  as  can  be  judged,  a  very  good  one,  the 
idea  being  to  harden  the  young  man's  mind  with  travel 
before'  he  settles  down  definitely  to  the  pursuit  of  his 
business.  In  many  trades  it  is  demanded  by  the  appren- 
tice, and  in  almost  all,  it  is  at  least  expected.  No  one 
enquires  too  closely,  upon  his  return,  as  to  the  sort  of 
life  he  has  been  leading,  for  it  is  assumed  that  he  must 
have  been  busy,  since  it  is  a  sine  qua  non  of  his  twelve 
months  of  freedom  that  he  support  himself  by  his  trade. 
Carlo's  uncle  and  brothers  did  not  enquire  either,  but 
packed  him  off,  as  soon  as  they  could,  to  Patras,  to  take 
his  Canon's  stall  and  become  a  prosperous,  comfortable, 
easy-going  Prelate,  just  sufficiently  distinguished  from  the 
rank  and  file  to  be  somebody,  and  far  enough  from  any 

338 


WAR  WITH  GENOA 

chance  of  real  responsibility  to  allow  of  his  leading  a 
serene  and  unruffled  existence. 

The  godson  of  the  Emperor,  he  was  a  person  of  some 
considerable  influence,  too,  and  the  knowledge  of  war 
that  he  had  acquired  during  his  service  with  the  Condot- 
tieri  was  not  at  all  amiss  in  an  ecclesiastic  of  the  Four- 
teenth Century,  when  Bishops  had  as  often  as  not  to 
guard  their  own  marches  with  their  own  good  swords. 
His  education  in  ecclesiastical  subjects  was  sketchy,  of 
course,  but  amply  sufficient  for  any  need  that  he  was 
likely  to  have  of  it;  so  he  set  out  for  Patras,  half  a 
priest,  half  a  soldier,  a  canon  unordained,  a  soldier  un- 
attached. 

Now  the  Governor  of  Patras,  just  then,  was  engaged 
with  the  common  enemy  of  Christendom,  the  Turk,  and 
since  the  soldier  in  Carlo  was  always  on  the  surface,  the 
Governor,  who  had  learned  from  some  source  or  another 
of  the  young  gentleman's  temperamental  proclivities,  and 
no  doubt  from  Carlo  himself  of  the  various  notable 
captains  under  whom  he  had  served,  pushed  him  into 
the  fight.  Carlo  was  only  twenty-two,  but  he  worked  so 
well,  and  flung  himself  into  the  campaign  with  such  whole- 
hearted enthusiasm,  that  before  long  he  was  wounded  so 
desperately  that  for  one  night  he  was  deemed  to  be  dead 
and  preparations  were  made  to  bury  him,  a  fate  which 
was  only  averted  in  the  nick  of  time  by  his  return  to 
consciousness. 

It  was  not  for  many  months  that  he  recovered  of  his 
grievous  hurt,  for  the  better  healing  of  which  he  was 
sent  back  to  Venice.  In  Italy  he  was  fortunate  enough 
to  meet  his  godfather,  the  Emperor,  and  to  make  a  good 
lodgment  in  the  great  man's  favour,  the  result  of  which 
was  to  send  him  on  Imperial  business  to  England,  France, 

339 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

and  Germany;  so  that,  when  he  returned  to  Patras,  he 
was  better  equipped  than  ever  for  either  of  the  two 
causes,  ecclesiastic  or  military,  which  he  might  choose  to 
espouse. 

At  Patras,  he  found  the  choice  made  for  him,  since 
the  place  was  once  more  imperilled,  this  time  by  French- 
men and  Cypriotes,  and  the  good  Bishop,  handing  over 
to  him  the  tiny  force  which  was  available,  bade  him  do 
the  best  he  could,  as  speedily  as  possible. 

Carlo's  best  —  the  best  of  "  Zeno  the  Unconquerable  " 
—  was  very  good  indeed.  So  good,  in  fact,  that  it  reads 
like  a  fable,  but  the  authority  is,  or  ought  to  be,  unim- 
peachable, so  it  must  be  accepted  that  during  six  months 
of  hard  fighting  he  kept  ten  or  twelve  thousand  enemies 
at  bay  with  seven  hundred  men,  and  ultimately  persuaded 
them  to  draw  off,  without  the  loss  of  a  single  man  on  his 
own  side. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind,  though,  that  in  those  de- 
lectable days  fighting  was  less  dangerous  for  the  com- 
batants than  at  any  time  before  or  since.  The  accounts 
of  the  wars  are  very  nearly  bloodless  —  for  the  com- 
batants, bien  entendu  —  not  for  the  inoffensive  and  help- 
less non-combatants,  the  sacking  and  looting  of  whom  was 
the  agreed  consideration  for  which  the  mercenaries  gave 
their  services. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  affair  that  the  direction  of 
Zeno's  life  was  settled  for  ever;  jealous  of  his  success 
and  his  growing  fame,  a  Greek  knight,  in  a.  moment  of 
spleen,  accused  him,  after  all  he  had  done,  of  treachery! 

There  is  a  touch  of  to-day  about  the  form  which  Sir 
Simon's  venom  took  that  brings  that  distant  past  very 
close  to  us.  "Tradito!"  "Nous  sommes  trahis!" 
These  are  still  the  first  cries  to  be  heard  when  the  gold 

340 


WAR  WITH  GENOA 

of  the  spendthrift  years  has  run  out  and  the  horrible 
creditors  crowd  into  a  nation's  House. 

One  would  hardly  have  thought  that  a  reasoning  man 
in  Zeno's  position  would  have  worried  his  head  with  such 
foolishness.  The  insult  might  well  have  been  the  occa- 
sion of  a  righteous  wrath  and  contempt,  but  that  is  all. 
Carlo,  however,  did  not  see  it  in  that  light,  and,  despite 
the  protests  of  his  more  sensible  friends  and  the  plead- 
ings of  his  Bishop,  he  challenged  his  traducer,  and,  by 
so  doing,  threw  up  his  ecclesiastical  ambitions  and  took 
the  sword  in  perpetuity. 

Free  now,  and  without  friends,  he  lost  no  time  in  mar- 
rying a  rich  and  noble  lady  who  had  fallen  in  love  with 
him,  at  Chiavenna;  her  he  left,  after  a  short  honeymoon, 
in  order  to  meet  Sir  Simon,  according  to  arrangement, 
at  Naples. 

That  kingdom  being  in  its  usual  condition,  it  was  no 
easy  task  to  penetrate  to  its  Capital  or  arrive  there,  even 
by  sea,  in  anything  like  safety.  But  Carlo  was  not  a 
person  lightly  to  be  deterred  when  the  prospect  of  a  fight 
was  in  question,  and  in  due  time  he  arrived  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Queen  Joanna,  who  had  been  selected  as  an 
umpire. 

But  she,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  come  to  the  decision 
that  it  was  a  case  for  damages  rather  than  for  a  duel, 
and,  a  court  having  sat  upon  it,  the  Greek  was  ordered 
to  refund  Carlo  for  his  expenses.  There  being  nothing 
else  to  keep  him,  he  returned  to  his  wife  in  Greece,  where 
he  was  soon  made  governor  of  a  province.  Soon  after 
his  wife  died,  and  he,  being  unable  to  retain  her  dowry, 
reembarked  for  Venice,  where  he  struck  out  anew  as  a 
bachelor. 

It  was  not  long,  though,  before  he  married  again,  and 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

his  second  wife,  the  daughter  of  the  Admiral,  Marco 
Giustiniani,  had  a  sufficiently  large  fortune  to  permit  of 
his  establishing  himself  as  a  merchant  in  the  East. 

Either  he  must  have  left  his  wife  behind  on  under- 
taking this  expedition  or  else  he  sent  her  home  later, 
for  the  adventures  through  which  he  passed  at  Constanti- 
nople would  have  been  too  risky,  even  for  him,  had  he 
had  any  "  incumbrances  "  with  him. 

Constantinople,  at  that  time,  was  in  the  hands  of  a 
usurper,  Andronicus,  who  had  deposed  his  father,  Carlo 
Yhomuas.  Now  Carlo  Yhomuas  was  a  friend  to  Venice 
and  had  gone  out  of  his  way,  while  he  was  on  the  throne, 
to  show  favour  to  Zeno's  father. 

When  it  came  to  his  ears  that  Zeno  was  in  the  city, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  here  was  a  chance  to  escape  from 
his  fortress  and  retake  the  crown,  and  that  since  the  wife 
of  his  gaoler  was  an  old  "  friend  "  of  his,  and  still  de- 
voted to  him,  she  would  make  an  excellent  go-between. 

It  was  no  very  desirable  undertaking  for  a  woman, 
since  Andronicus  had  filled  the  court  with  spies,  and  dis- 
covery would  mean  certain  torture  and  death;  but  she 
accomplished  her  mission,  and  Zeno,  to  whom  such  ad- 
ventures were  the  salt  of  life,  fell  in  with  the  idea 
instantly  and  joyfully. 

Having  obtained  the  promise  of  support  from  some 
Greek  soldiers,  by  ways  known  only  to  himself,  he 
strolled  out  one  evening  along  the  shore,  until  he  arrived 
at  a  point  where,  across  the  water  and  rising  straight 
up  from  it,  stood  a  high  tower;  being  assured  that  no 
one  was  about,  Carlo  studied  a  window  at  the  top  of  it 
speculatively. 

It  was  not  grilled,  but  it  was  small  and  it  was  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  up.  From  the  land  side  he  could  do 

342 


nothing;  it  was  too  well  guarded,  and  all  that  he  and 
the  surprised  captive  up  there  had  to  rely  upon  was  a 
small  woman. 

He  would  have  to  wait  for  the  dark  of  the  moon,  he 
saw,  and,  besides,  he  must  find  some  means  of  getting  a 
long,  stout  rope  into  the  Emperor's  bedroom.  This  was 
accomplished,  I  think,  by  winding  it  around  the  lady's 
body,  and  since  she  had  the  privilege,  while  her  husband's 
back  was  turned,  of  ingress  to  the  ex-Emperor's  apart- 
ments, she  waited  until  the  former  was  making  his  rounds 
in  the  evening  and  slipped  past  the  unsuspecting  sentry 
in  the  dark. 

Then  she  dropped  the  rope  from  the  window  and  left 
Carlo  Yhomuas  to  himself.  Carlo,  who  was  as  much  a 
sailor  as  he  was  a  soldier,  speedily  climbed  up  and,  hav- 
ing hauled  himself  through  the  window,  begged  the  Em- 
peror to  descend. 

But,  at  this  critical  moment,  Carlo  Yhomuas'  nerve 
failed  him.  As  he  told  Zeno,  he  had  two  other  sons  who 
were  both  at  the  mercy  of  Andronicus,  and  Andronicus 
was  a  desperate  and  bloodstained  scoundrel  who  would 
probably  cut  both  their  throats  if  their  father  ran 
away. 

Zeno  argued  and  pleaded  and  stormed,  but  all  to  no 
purpose,  and,  finally,  he  was  compelled  to  climb  down 
again  alone  and  make  his  way  home. 

No  sooner  was  Carlo  Yhomuas  alone  again,  however, 
than  his  courage  came  back  to  him,  and  the  gaoler's  wife 
was  entrusted  with  another  communication  for  the  young 
Venetian,  to  which  the  latter  replied  instantly,  spurred  by 
the  proposal  which  Carlo  Yhomuas  made  to  present 
Venice  with  the  island  of  Tenedos,  in  his  will. 

This  time,  though,  Fate  was  against  them.    It  is  very 

343 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

rarely  that  the  hussy  smiles  upon  a  second  attempt,  if  her 
favour  has  been  too  lightly  treated  during  the  first  one, 
and  now  she  turned  her  face  away  spitefully.  The  gaol- 
er's wife  had  hidden  Carlo's  note  in  her  shoe  and,  just 
as  she  was  reaching  Carlo  Yhomuas'  room,  the  shoe 
slipped  off  and  the  sentry  pounced  upon  the  paper. 

In  an  hour  she  was  in  the  torture  room  and  in  an  hour 
and  a  half  she  had  given  up  her  secret,  while  Zeno  (upon 
whom,  as  soon  as  the  accident  occurred,  Fate  smiled 
again,  as  upon  a  well-loved  child,  who  has  caused  his 
parent  a  momentary  displeasure  by  the  company  he  has 
been  keeping,  but  who,  once  rescued  from  his  friends, 
immediately  becomes  the  adored  offspring  again)  es- 
caped to  sea  and  got  on  board  a  Venetian  warship,  which 
happened  to  be  visiting  the  port,  and  showed  the  will  of 
Carlo  Yhomuas  to  the  officer  commanding. 

It  did  not  take  this  latter  worthy  long  to  come  to  the 
conclusion  that,  since  Carlo  Yhomuas  was  the  rightful 
Emperor,  and,  also,  since  he  was  not  likely  ever  to  reach 
his  youngest  son,  that  the  Venetians  might  as  well  take 
possession  at  Tenedos  before  Andronicus  could  exercise 
his  illegally  obtained  power  and  make  a  present  of  the 
island  to  his  friend,  the  Genoese. 

Fortune  still  smiled  upon  her  son,  for,  when  the  fleet 
came  to  Tenedos,  they  found  it  to  be  held  by  an  officer 
of  Carlo  Yhomuas,  well  fortified,  and  stocked  with  pro- 
visions; and  he,  having  heard  everything  and  seen  his 
Emperor's  will  in  his  own  handwriting,  was  easily  per- 
suaded to  place  the  island  under  the  protection  of  Venice. 
That  done,  and  the  seeds  of  a  pleasant  and  profitable 
war  with  Genoa  sown,  they  garrisoned  the  island  as 
heavily  as  they  could,  and  sailed  for  Venice. 

The  Senate,   as  it  was  to  be  expected,   disapproved 

344 


WAR  WITH  GENOA 

gravely  and  openly  of  the  whole  affair  —  and  promptly 
sent  a  fleet  to  Tenedos  to  hold  it  against  all  comers  I 
With  this  fleet  sailed  Carlo  Zeno.  After  a  brisk  but  use- 
less ruffle  under  the  walls  of  Constantinople,  Carlo  re- 
turned to  Tenedos  with  three  ships,  just  in  time  to  get 
his  men  ashore  and  his  defences  arranged  before  the 
Genoese  swooped  down  upon  him  with  twenty-two  ships. 
I  cannot  be  quite  sure  if,  on  this  occasion,  he  had  Michel 
Steno  with  him,  though  it  is  certain  that  the  latter  was, 
at  one  time,  his  assistant  in  the  island;  but,  if  he  had,  the 
subsequent  rout  of  the  Genoese  becomes  more  under- 
standable. Two  such  minds  as  Carlo's  and  Michel's 
were  worth  a  good  many  hundred  men.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  the  Genoese  were  repulsed,  twice  running  in  two 
successive  days,  and  that  so  fiercely  and  with  such  loss 
that  they  left  the  island  in  a  hurry.  Nor  did  they  come 
back,  and  Carlo,  as  soon  as  his  wounds,  of  which  he  had 
received  three  in  the  two  days'  fighting,  would  permit 
of  it,  returned  to  Venice  in  a  blaze  of  glory. 

Venice,  at  the  time  of  his  return,  had  a  half-finished 
quarrel  with  the  Carrara  upon  her  hands,  and  Carlo 
was  immediately  despatched  to  the  scene  of  hostilities. 

In  1378,  he  was  made  military  governor  of  Negro- 
ponti,  but  the  sea  called  him  again,  soon  after,  and  from 
that  time  until  the  Genoese  siege  of  Chioggia  he  spent 
his  time  upon  his  favourite  element  and  at  his  favourite 
business  —  to  wit,  fighting  the  Genoese. 

During  the  interminable  wars  that  occupied  the  next 
thirty  years,  Carlo  became  the  one  shining  star  in  the 
State's  skies  that  no  cloud  or  storm  could  dim  or  hide. 
Vittor  Pisani,  his  nominal  superior,  had  his  ups  and 
downs,  and  proved  himself  to  be  almost  if  not  entirely 
Zeno's  equal,  but  Zeno  was  the  popular  idol. 

345 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

He  raided  the  Genoese  coast  in  such  a  fashion  that  his 
name  was  a  terror  to  the  city  of  Genoa  for  a  hundred 
years  afterwards,  and,  by  closing  the  Mediterranean  to 
his  enemies,  he  struck  a  vital  blow  at  their  prosperity. 
By  keeping  continuously  on  the  move  and  darting  from 
point  to  point  with  his  light  ships,  he  contrived  to  keep 
a  considerable  part  of  the  Genoese  fleet  constantly  em- 
ployed, and  a  good  part  of  the  Genoese  troops  on  the 
coast;  but  his  peripatetic  methods  were  not  always  to 
the  advantage  of  Venice,  for  they  made  it  extremely  diffi- 
cult to  reach  him,  either  with  news  or  orders,  so  that, 
although  the  Senate  despatched  boat  after  boat  and  mes- 
senger after  messenger  to  acquaint  him  with  the  defeat 
of  Vittor  Pisani  at  Pola,  by  the  Genoese  Admiral  Luciano 
Doria,  with  instructions  to  return,  it  was  by  accident  that 
the  story  reached  him,  six  months  after  the  battle,  as  he 
was  standing  out  of  Candia,  where  the  Doge's  messenger 
arrived  soon  afterwards. 

He  left  Candia  on  the  2d  of  December,  1379,  and 
sailed  for  Paranzo,  where  he  arrived  upon  the  i4th. 
Although  he  knew  of  the  defeat  at  Pola,  he  had  not  as 
yet  any  real  idea  of  the  desperate  condition  of  Venice 
until  he  arrived  at  the  Lido,  where  a  government  agent 
gave  him  a  view  of  the  condition  of  affairs  and  begged 
him  to  hasten  to  Chioggia,  then  closely  blockaded  by 
Vittor  Pisani. 

Chioggia  had  fallen  to  the  Genoese  on  the  6th  of  Au- 
gust, but  on  the  2ist  of  December,  Pisani,  who  had  only 
been  released  from  the  prison,  where  he  was  incarcerated 
after  Pola,  because  the  people  flatly  refused  to  follow 
or  serve  under  any  one  else,  had  succeeded  in  bottling 
up  the  Genoese  fleet,  much  as  the  Japanese  bottled  up 
the  Russians  at  Port  Arthur,  with  the  difference  that  his 

346 


WAR  WITH  GENOA 

operation  was  successful  and  theirs  was  not.  To  bottle 
up  a  strong  enemy  is  sensible;  to  pay  a  broken  one  the 
distinguished  compliment  of  sinking  good  ships,  and  sac- 
rificing life  to  prevent  him  from  getting  at  you,  is  some- 
thing else. 

Unfortunately,  his  troops  were  amateur  soldiers,  and, 
though  their  patriotism,  helped  by  their  acquired  and  in- 
herited hatred  of  the  Genoese,  had  held  them  to  their 
task  for  a  while,  yet  a  winter  campaign  uses  up  the 
reserves  of  such  passing  enthusiasms  quickly,  and  poor 
Pisani  found  himself,  as  have  others  who  have  attempted 
to  carry  out  long  and  arduous  operations  with  irregular 
troops,  between  the  devil  of  abandoning  his  enterprise 
altogether  and  the  deep  sea  of  the  revenge  that  the  well- 
armed,  well-disciplined,  and  half-starved  enemy  would  ex- 
act by  land,  the  instant  that  the  necessity  for  guarding 
the  harbour  was  over. 

His  men  clamoured  ceaselessly  to  be  allowed  to  return 
home  and  attend  to  their  affairs,  disregarding  the  proba- 
bility that,  if  they  did  relax  their  grip  upon  Doria's 
throat,  they  would  have  no  affairs  to  attend  to,  save  that 
of  paying  the  heaviest  indemnity  that  he  could  exact.  But 
the  reasoning  powers  of  human  beings  in  the  mass  are 
not  great,  and,  at  last,  Pisani  was  compelled  to  promise 
that,  should  Carlo  Zeno  not  arrive  within  two  days,  he 
would  sail  for  the  Lido. 

Heavy  days  they  must  have  been  for  Pisani,  with  the 
very  existence  of  the  Republic  depending  upon  whether 
or  no  a  person  who  had  not  been  heard  from  for  many 
months  past  would,  accidentally,  arrive  in  time  to  redeem 
the  promise  and  save  it. 

As  it  has  been  already  suggested,  Carlo's  popularity 
was  due  in  a  very  large  measure  to  his  astounding  luck; 

347 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

nor  did  it  desert  him  now.  For  forty-eight  hours  was 
Pisani  compelled  to  endure  his  agony,  in  order  that  Carlo 
might  arrive  exactly  at  the  right  moment  —  not  an  hour 
too  soon  to  spoil  the  splendid  effect  of  his  seemingly 
miraculous  appearance  upon  the  scene,  not  an  hour  too 
late  to  save  Pisani  and  Venice. 

It  was  at  daybreak  that  Pisani,  despair  in  his  heart, 
climbed  out  of  his  cabin  and  mechanically  swept  the  hori- 
zon with  his  eyes.  For  some  minutes  he  staid  there,  un- 
willing to  turn  away  from  the  clean,  open  sea  to  the 
sight  of  the  prize  which  he  was  being  forced  to  give 
up  when  it  was  already  in  his  grasp.  How  his  heart 
must  have  ached,  as  he  recalled  the  gathering  of  the  citi- 
zens, the  prayers,  the  shouting  and  boasting,  the  speeches 
of  the  Doge,  the  "  do  or  die  "  ranting  of  the  weak-backed 
people,  who,  having  seen  war  (for  they  had,  up  till  then, 
been  a  highly  respectable  community  and  had  hired  their 
fighting  men  by  the  month  or  year,  as  they  needed  them), 
were,  of  course,  perfectly  ready  to  plunge  in  it,  and  still 
more  ready,  once  they  began  to  feel  the  weight  of  it, 
to  crawl  out  again. 

His  dreary  meditations  were  suddenly  disturbed  by 
a  cry  from  aloft,  and  he  came  to  himself  with  a  start  as 
the  cry  was  repeated. 

It  was  a  sail,  and,  in  answer  to  his  furiously  anxious 
questions,  the  lookout  presently  reported  that  it  was  that 
of  a  fighting-vessel,  and  that  there  were  more  of  them 
coming  up  behind  her. 

At  last  he  shouted  down  that  he  had  counted  eighteen 
of  them  —  and  then  Pisani,  frantic  to  know  the  worst 
or  the  best  as  speedily  as  possible,  despatched  a  light  boat 
to  reconnoitre  and  see  if  this  were  light  or  darkness  that 
was  descending  upon  him. 

348 


WAR  WITH  GENOA 

The  little  boat  shot  away  into  the  morning  haze  and, 
when  almost  within  hailing  distance  of  the  leading  vessel, 
her  crew  straining  their  eyes  to  catch  any  hint  which 
might  tell  them  who  and  what  these  new  arrivals  were, 
they  saw  a  flag  broken  out  from  the  peak. 

It  was  the  banner  of  St.  Mark,  and,  with  a  yell  of  de- 
light, they  went  about  and  raced  for  Pisani's  flagship. 
Their  demigod  had  arrived! 

It  was  a  long  story  that  he  had  to  tell  when  the  Doge 
met  him,  and  it  must  have  been  balm  to  the  wounded  heart 
of  the  former  when  he  heard  how  Carlo  had  ravaged 
the  Genoese  coast,  captured  Genoese  convoys,  dislocated 
Genoese  trade  with  the  East,  and,  to  crown  his  triumphs, 
had  captured  a  Genoese  galley  off  Rhodes,  with  half  a 
million  pieces  of  gold  in  it. 

Although  he  had  been  twice  wounded,  and,  Pisani's 
promise  redeemed,  there  was  no  need  of  haste,  he  insisted 
upon  being  allowed  to  place  himself  opposite  Buondolo. 
One  night  a  storm  sprang  up  of  the  Mediterranean  sort, 
and  the  Genoese  attempted  to  take  advantage  of  it  and 
break  through  the  blockade  to  open  sea ;  but  Carlo  drove 
them  back  again.  It  was  during  this  action  that  his  ship 
dragged  her  anchor  and  was  driven  in  under  the  Genoese 
forts,  and  Carlo  received  an  arrow  through  the  throat, 
which  all  but  killed  him.  He  did  not  leave  the  deck, 
however,  nor  did  he  seem  to  pay  the  least  attention  to 
his  wound,  until  his  ship  was  clear  again,  when  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  stumble  over  an  open  hatch  and  fall 
into  the  hold  of  the  ship.  Even  then  he  had  sufficient 
presence  of  mind  to  turn  over  on  his  face  and  let  the 
blood  run  freely,  thereby  saving  his  life. 

It  does  not  seem  to  have  taken  him  long  to  recover 
from  a  wound  which  would  have  been  the  death  of  most 

349 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

men,  for  he  was  almost  immediately  made  General-in- 
Chief  of  the  land  forces  of  the  Republic  —  to  be  exact, 
on  February  15  —  and  he  had  received  the  wound  some 
time  either  at  the  end  of  January  or  the  beginning  of 
February! 

Then  it  was  that  Zeno  the  leader  appeared,  as  distinct 
from  Zeno  the  fighter  and  tactician. 

By  the  capture  of  Lorado,  Carlo  had  cut  the  Genoese 
off  from  their  remaining  base  of  supplies  at  Icomea,  and 
all  that  remained  to  accomplish  was  the  recapture  of 
Chioggia  itself,  either  by  storm  or  siege. 

The  former  course  having  been  decided  upon,  the  fa- 
mous Sir  John  Hawkwood  was  sent  for  —  he  whose  name 
is  a  household  word  in  Italy  to  this  day,  and  his  men 
were  assembled  at  Palestina,  an  island  in  the  near  neigh- 
bourhood of  Chioggia. 

But  Sir  John  did  not  appear,  and  the  unmilitary  Vene- 
tians were  faced  with  the  necessity  of  finding  a  man  who 
could  first  reduce  the  wild  free-lances  to  some  sort  of 
order,  and  induce  them  afterwards  to  trust  him  as  their 
leader.  Fortunately  these  gentlemen  were  shut  up  on 
an  island,  which  must  have  been  a  sweet  place  for  any 
unfortunate  natives  who  might  have  been  there  in  those 
days,  for  Hawkwood's  men  were  drafted  from  half  a 
dozen  separate  nationalities,  most  of  whom  were  fighting 
each  other  in  France  and  Germany  at  the  time. 

The  business  of  disciplining  them  was  laid  upon  Carlo, 
as  the  only  man  who  had  had  any  experience  of  condot- 
tieri ;  brave  as  he  was,  he  might  well  have  shrunk  from 
the  task,  as  from  entering  a  den  of  wild  beasts,  but  he 
accepted  it  instantly,  put  on  his  armour,  and  had  himself 
rowed  over  to  the  island. 

35° 


WAR  WITH  GENOA 

When  he  got  there  he  found  the  men,  as  he  probably 
expected  to  do,  at  each  other's  throats,  but  he  was  not 
daunted  by  their  savagery.  We  are  told  that  many  of 
them  had  served  under  him  before,  so  that  when  he  an- 
nounced his  arrival  with  a  blare  of  trumpets,  and  called 
upon  them  to  listen  to  what  he  had  to  say,  they  did  as 
they  were  told,  and  surrounded  him,  pouring  out  their 
complaints  as  to  a  man  who  was  a  soldier  himself  and 
who  could  understand  them. 

To  be  sure,  he  had  known  what  was  at  the  bottom  of 
their  grievances  before  he  started.  They  were  mercena- 
ries. They  fought  for  pay  and  for  loot.  The  Senate, 
being  extremely  hard  up,  had  not  paid  them,  nor  had 
it  shown  any  honest  intention  of  doing  so.  Carlo  him- 
self had  already  been  told,  and  with  all  gravity,  that  the 
Senators  were  of  the  unanimous  opinion  that  it  was  his 
duty  personally  to  serve  without  pay. 

But,  having  temporarily  calmed  the  storm,  Carlo  im- 
mediately communicated  with  the  Senate  and  informed 
that  august  body  that,  unless  the  mercenaries'  pay  were 
forthcoming,  he  must  give  up  any  idea  of  storming 
Chioggia.  It  was  an  affair  for  regular  troops,  and,  even 
in  the  unlikely  event  of  his  being  able  to  bring  the  Vene- 
tian amateurs  up  to  the  defence,  there  was  not  the  least 
chance  of  his  being  able  to  induce  them  to  attack  with 
any  seriousness.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  offer  to  sub- 
scribe five  hundred  ducats  himself  if  the  Senate  would 
come  forward  with  a  similar  amount. 

This  they  did,  very  unwillingly,  and  Carlo  was  en- 
abled to  give  his  whole  attention  to  the  frustrating  of 
the  Genoese  commander's  scheme  for  saving  his  fleet  by 
digging  a  canal  through  the  island  and  bringing  his  ships 

351 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

out  to  open  sea,  whence  they  could  once  more  threaten 
Venice  effectively. 

This  captain's  name  was  Grimaldi,  and  he  was,  by  all 
accounts,  a  daring  and  resourceful  man,  but  he  had  not 
reckoned  with  Carlo  Zeno.  He  could  outnumber  the 
Venetians  by  five  thousand  and  more,  but,  unless  he  con- 
trived to  cut  or  manoeuvre  his  way  out,  he  would  be 
driven  to  surrender  by  famine  —  one  hope,  albeit  a  very 
doubtful  one,  he  had  besides,  and  that  was  the  arrival 
of  the  Genoese  fleet  under  Matteo  Maruffo,  who,  em- 
boldened by  an  easy  victory  over  Giustiniani,  near  Na- 
ples, appeared  off  Chioggia  on  the  i4th  of  May,  when 
he  immediately  challenged  Pisani  to  an  encounter. 

Being  a  serious  person,  Pisani  naturally  refused  to 
accommodate  him  and  run  the  risk  of  losing  men  and 
ships,  when  the  ends  of  the  campaign  could  be  attained 
without  any  further  trouble  than  that  of  remaining  where 
he  was;  and,  a  short  while  afterwards,  Matteo  withdrew, 
and  the  garrison  of  Chioggia  were  compelled  to  watch 
their  last  chance  disappear  seawards. 

Before  this,  it  must  be  said,  Carlo  had  succeeded  in 
capturing  Brondolo,  and  the  Genoese  were  running  short 
of  food  and  water.  The  garrison  tried  to  foment  dis- 
order in  Carlo's  command,  and  even  attempted  to  as- 
sassinate Carlo,  without  success.  At  last,  on  the  22d  of 
June,  the  Genoese  struck  their  colours,  and  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  24th  Carlo  made  his  entry. 

Afterwards,  Carlo  captured  the  Castle  of  Marano, 
and  finally  drove  the  Genoese  into  their  own  harbour 
of  Genoa  and  kept  them  there,  which  brought  the  war 
to  an  end.  When  peace  was  once  more  upon  Venice, 
Carlo,  now  about  forty-seven  years  old,  was  made 
Captain-General  of  the  forces,  and  later  was  very  nearly 

352 


WAR  WITH  GENOA 

elected  to  the  Dogeship,  only  being  defeated  by  the  fact 
that,  if  Venice  should  again  find  herself  at  war,  there 
would  be  nobody  to  lead  her  troops,  since  the  Doge's 
place  was  in  Venice.  For  another  thing,  the  Patricians 
disliked  him  intensely,  he  having  always  and  resolutely 
refused  to  follow  their  advice  during  the  war. 

There  being  nothing  more  to  be  gained  at  the  mo- 
ment in  Venice,  Carlo  went  a-visiting  once  more,  and  the 
receptions  v/hich  he  received  at  the  various  courts  of  Italy 
must  have  been  a  source  of  great  gratification  to  him 
after  the  dark  days  he  had  been  through. 

Like  a  true  soldier  —  one  who  has  no  personal  ill- 
feeling  for  the  accidental  enemy  of  the  moment  and  who, 
the  question  in  hand  once  settled,  is  ready  to  do  anything 
in  his  power  for  the  man  he  has  been  fighting  —  Carlo, 
on  meeting  a  former  adversary  in  the  person  of  the  son 
of  the  Count  of  Padua,  at  Asti,  and  finding  him  in  ex- 
ceedingly straitened  and  uncomfortable  circumstances, 
took  him  to  his  arms  and  lent  him  four  hundred  ducats. 
It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  his  generosity  was  not  im- 
posed upon,  for  the  money  was  paid  back  later,  when 
the  exile  was  restored  to  his  possessions. 

Later,  too,  Carlo  again  defeated  the  Genoese,  led  this 
time  by  a  French  general,  and,  after  that,  hung  up  his 
good  sword  and  turned  to  civil  affairs;  though  he  once 
accompanied  the  troops  against  the  Carrara,  as  a  "  prov- 
veditore,"  and,  on  Padua  .being  taken,  was  made  Governor 
of  that  city. 

Now,  the  real  rulers  of  Venice  were  the  dreaded  and 
terrible  Ten.  From  any  decision  of  theirs  there  was 
no  appeal,  and,  since  these  decisions  were  guided  only  by 
their  own  passions,  it  can  be  understood  that  the  civil 
affairs  of  Venice  were  in  a  precarious  condition.  On  the 

353 


ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS 

taking  of  Padua,  Carlo's  old  beneficiary,  Francesco  de 
Carrara  and  his  son  were  taken  to  Venice  and  there,  by 
order  of  the  Ten,  strangled  in  their  prison.  Carlo's  suc- 
cessor in  the  governorship  of  Padua,  having  nothing  bet- 
ter to  do,  took  upon  himself  to  go  through  the  old  city 
accounts,  and,  among  them,  discovered  the  entry  of  the 
four  hundred  ducats  which  Francesco  repaid  to  Carlo 
Zeno.  The  account  made  no  mention  of  any  loan,  though, 
and  the  governor,  anxious  to  get  himself  into  the  good 
graces  of  the  Ten,  immediately  sent  them  the  document. 

It  seems  hardly  credible  that  even  that  vitiated  council 
could  have  refused  to  accept  Carlo's  word  for  it,  but, 
in  spite  of  all  his  glorious  services,  they  insisted  upon 
believing  this  was  a  bribe  that  he  had  received  and  sen- 
tenced him  to  the  loss  of  all  his  places  and  titles  and  to 
five  years  of  imprisonment  besides !  And  yet  Venice  was 
called  a  Republic! 

By  the  lifting  of  his  finger  Carlo  could  have  raised  such 
a  storm  as  would  have  swallowed  up  the  civil  government 
of  Venice  in  a  week,  but  he  seems  to  have  accepted  the 
horrid  injustice  —  as  did  Pisani  before  him  —  with  phi- 
losophy. It  is  not  likely  that  the  sentence  was  executed, 
though  —  even  the  Ten  were  not  powerful  enough  for 
that,  one  imagines  —  and  Carlo  was  soon  off  on  a  jour- 
ney to  Jerusalem,  where  he  was  knighted  —  he,  Carlo, 
the  scourge  of  Genoa,  the  terror  of  the  Turks ! —  by  a 
Prince,  it  is  said,  of  Scotland,  though  of  that,  in  view 
of  the  character  and  occupations  of  such  of  the  Scottish 
Princes  of  the  times  as  our  history  tells  of,  one  cannot 
but  have  the  gravest  doubts. 

An  old  man  now,  Zeno  had  one  last  scuffle  with  the 
Genoese,  in  the  service  of  the  King  of  Cyprus,  and  after 
beating  them  soundly  returned  home,  at  the  age  of  seventy- 

354 


WAR  WITH  GENOA 

four  or  seventy-five,  and  settled  down.  He  lived  for 
several  years  afterwards,  gathering  around  himself  the 
best  of  the  city  —  artists,  literati,  scholars  of  all  sorts. 
And  when  he  died  he  was  carried  to  his  grave  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  seamen,  as  a  sailor  should  be. 


355 


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